


Intersections

by Jaybee65



Series: LFN Pre-Canon [1]
Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon, TR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-03-24
Updated: 2002-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 00:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 67,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybee65/pseuds/Jaybee65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Secrets from the past, stretching all the way back to Operations' and Madeline's respective recruitments, come to the forefront during the events of the 3rd season episode Love and Country. But only through the past - and the choices made along the way - can the present be understood.  [Clarification re non-con warning:  this refers to the LFN practice of valentine missions, which strictly speaking are non-consensual and thus qualify for the warning.  There is no graphic rape or non-con scene in this story.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Contains spoilers all the way through mid-season 4.

# 1999

Madeline's eyes followed the graceful sweep of the branch as it bent -- just so. To gaze at the delicacy of the bonsai was soothing, but, even more important, to contemplate the paradoxes they incarnated was profound -- beauty expressed through deformity; the essence of nature captured through artificial means; a tiny, confined space representing the universe's infinite vastness.

It was when events were at their most chaotic that she turned to the bonsai for comfort. Their balance was a reminder that a resolution of even seemingly irreconcilable conflicts was, in fact, possible; their harmony was proof that perfection existed and could be achieved.

She wasn't entirely certain how long she had been standing still, staring at the row of pots and plants. It was taking longer than usual for them to help her conquer her anxiety about the present situation. She tried to think of it as simply another mission -- and in a way, that's all it was. But it was a mission that dredged up long-buried ghosts, bringing back feelings that she thought she had permanently vanquished. Those feelings were a discomfiting mixture of many things -- fear, love, disgust and anger among them -- but above all, seizing her in a painful grip, guilt. The longer she tried to focus on the tranquility of the plants behind the glass, the sharper and more relentless the guilt became.

Admitting defeat, she closed her eyes and sighed. She then started as she heard her telephone ring. Fumbling with uncharacteristic nervousness, she picked it up and answered.

"We have a problem." George dispensed with his usual greeting.

"Yes, we do." With great effort, she kept her voice calm, acknowledging the situation without revealing her apprehension.

"How did this happen?"

"Markali's name was on a list of Badenheim associates. As soon as he saw it, he became obsessed. There was no persuading him otherwise. Believe me, I've tried."

"As have I. Short of giving him a direct order to drop it."

"Don't do that," Madeline cautioned. "That will only make it worse."

"What alternative is there? He's about to destroy years of work."

"There are other ways of getting at Badenheim's inner circle. But if you deny him this, he'll spend every waking moment studying Markali, trying to build evidence against him. Do you really want him engaged in that kind of scrutiny?"

"Perhaps not. If he ever found out the truth...."

"It could be very ugly. For all of us."

There was a tense silence on the line for several moments before George spoke again.

"So you think we should allow him to proceed."

"Give him what he wants, as quickly as possible, before he spends too much time looking into this."

"You'll be handling it yourself?" It was an order as much as it was a question.

"Of course."

"I'll do what I can on my end. Forward me the mission profile and I'll make sure everything is prepared."

"You'll have it within the hour."

"Good." George paused again. "You know, Madeline, it's been quite some time since we worked directly together on anything. It almost makes one nostalgic."

"It has been a long time, hasn't it?"

"A lapse that perhaps we need to rectify."

* * *

* * *

# 1971

The long oak desk, normally polished to a glossy sheen, overflowed with haphazard piles of papers and file folders. Adrian had cleared a small work area and sat reviewing the latest reports from Uganda, stopping occasionally to absentmindedly sip her -- now lukewarm -- tea. She frowned, studying the photograph of the tall general. According to her sources, Idi Amin was an unstable illiterate -- and yet the Western powers were unreservedly supporting his coup. She made a slight 'tsk' of disgust. Politicians and bureaucrats could be so short-sighted -- and short-sightedness, as she had seen so many times, led to compromises with evil.

A light knock at her door interrupted her concentration. The door swung open, and a man peered inside.

"Hello, George," Adrian said warmly. "Do come in."

George entered the office, looked with a curious expression at the uncharacteristic mess on the desk, and took a seat. "You look rather busy," he said hesitantly. "Is this a bad time?"

"Not at all. In fact, I needed to speak to you." Adrian removed a file folder from one of the piles on the corner of her desk. "I've approved most of your proposals for the other Sections. However, I did hold one for further discussion."

George raised his eyebrows in a silent query.

"It's the new recruit for Section Two," she answered.

"Ah yes, the young lady." George smiled as if he anticipated her objection.

"We rarely recruit civilians, George, and certainly not teenagers. Especially mentally unstable teenagers, I might add." She kept her tone polite, but disapproving.

"She's not mentally unstable," George countered. "She's been tested thoroughly."

Adrian shook her head and withdrew a document from the folder. "She has a criminal record. Shoplifting, vandalism, auto theft, arson...."

George shrugged. "She's a rebellious teenager. That's part of why she was selected."

"She burned down an entire juvenile detention center. That hardly seems like mere rebellion." Adrian was scornful. "She's probably a sociopath."

"Quite the contrary. A sociopath would have let everyone burn to death. She made sure to pull the fire alarm first, and no one was hurt. The doctors say that she's withdrawn, defensive, yes -- but not a sociopath."

"And then there's what didn't make it into her criminal record."

"The incident with the sister."

"Yes. How do you explain that?"

"She was a young child. She couldn't have known the consequences of what she was doing. I don't think that should be an issue. She hasn't hurt anyone since -- only property damage."

Adrian frowned, tapping a finger on her desk in thought. George might, technically, be correct. But Adrian trusted her instincts, and they told her that this recruit would be unpredictable, perhaps even dangerous.

George leaned forward in his chair, his expression sincere. "I understand your reservations, Adrian, but she's ideal for this mission. She's young, has a high IQ, is estranged from her family, and is capable of committing violent acts. And have you looked at the photos?"

"Not carefully."

George took the file folder from Adrian, opened it, and pulled out a photo. He placed it on Adrian's desk. "This is Madeline." He then removed a second photo and set it alongside the first. "And this is Dr. Ohanian's late daughter."

"My God," Adrian exclaimed, eyes widening.

"The resemblance is striking, isn't it? Not too perfect, or he'd become suspicious. But strong enough that he'll be affected by it."

Adrian sighed. This girl was perfectly suited to the mission, and the mission, unfortunately, would be highly valuable. Swallowing her distaste, she spoke. "Well, George, I'll trust your judgment on this one. But I do hope that you appreciate the risk involved. She's going to be exposed to some very dangerous things by this doctor. If she's unstable, we could be creating a monster."

"If so, all we have to do is cancel her."

"I wish it were that simple," Adrian replied.

George stood up, straightened his jacket, and walked toward the door to take his leave. As he turned the doorknob, Adrian called out to him.

"Working here is hard on one's moral code as it is. But I would prefer that our operatives at least start out with one."

* * *

It was the nausea that woke her. Its pulsing waves kept demanding her attention, despite her deep desire to sink back into the comforting embrace of unconsciousness. It prodded and stabbed at her insistently, leaving her trembling and coated in sweat.

As Madeline instinctively curled up in the fetal position, clutching her stomach, she noticed the softness of the mattress beneath her: the softness, that is, compared to the discomfort of the bench she last remembered lying down on. In truth, the mattress was thin and lumpy, in that well-worn way that institutional beds always had.

The mattress made no sense. Nor did the silence. The holding cell of the city jail had been full of noisy, complaining women. She had fallen asleep only because of her incredible exhaustion, the chattering voices fading into a muffled roar in the back of her mind. But now she heard nothing.

Where was she, and how did she get there? As she shifted on the bed once again, she pondered the possibilities. There weren't many. She had either been processed into her own cell at the jail, or she had been transferred to a mental hospital. She was intimately familiar with both types of institutions -- and much preferred the jail. It was odd, though, that she didn't remember being moved. She tried to reach into the recesses of her memory, but her brain seemed encased in a thick, disorienting fog. A mental fog. Of course. She had been sedated -- she should have recognized the signs immediately. She now had the answer to her question: the jail wouldn't have sedated her, but a hospital would.

She slowly raised her eyelids and took in her surroundings: a drab, windowless room, empty but for her bed, lit by harsh fluorescent light. She was a bit surprised to find herself alone; she had never warranted her own room before. But then again, she had never burned down an entire building before, for that matter. _Special privileges for a special patient_, she thought with a twinge of grim amusement.

She sat up weakly and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Despite the lingering nausea and dizziness, she forced herself to stand and then walked back and forth along the room, inspecting every inch of the walls and floors. She was pleased to spot several cracks large enough to discard unwanted medication into. Keeping a clear head would be her top priority until she could figure out a way to escape.

But escape would first require getting out of this room. It would probably be too much to expect for the door to have been left unlocked, but then again, the employees of such institutions weren't always the brightest people. She had slipped out of unsecured doors too many times in the past not to give it a try. Crossing her fingers for luck, she walked to the door, reached for the doorknob -- and jumped back, startled, as the doorknob turned of its own accord.

She stepped back out of the way as the door pushed inwards and a figure appeared. She expected a nurse, but instead saw a tall woman in street clothes. The woman inspected her clinically, but then smiled and walked into the room, closing the door soundly behind her.

"I see you're finally awake."

Madeline looked at the woman without responding. Volunteering anything would give her no advantage.

"Don't you want to know where you are?"

"Does it matter?"

The woman laughed. "Oh, it matters a lot. Your life's at stake."

Madeline kept silent. Whatever game this person was playing -- cop, shrink, or whatever she was -- Madeline had no intention of joining.

The woman sighed in frustration. "Okay, sweetheart, I see you're not the chatty type. So I'll do the talking. You're in a place called Section Two."

_The wing where they keep the 'difficult patients', no doubt_, Madeline thought.

"We're a covert government agency engaged in fighting terrorism. Because of your special skills, you've been recruited to join us."

_My God, this isn't a shrink -- I'm locked in with one of the patients._

Her eyes widening, Madeline looked the woman up and down in disbelief. She wasn't wearing hospital garb, and she looked more like a social worker than a lunatic. But the woman was clearly insane, so Madeline surreptitiously tensed her body for a potential attack.

"My name is Tina, and I'll be your trainer."

"Okay, Tina," Madeline said slowly, hoping to placate her long enough to spot an intercom or a buzzer to summon a nurse for help.

With a sudden movement that caused Madeline to flinch involuntarily, Tina turned back toward the door. "Come with me. I'm going to take you on a tour."

Tina pulled the door open vigorously and stepped outside, watching Madeline with an expectant expression. Madeline hesitated.

"Come on," Tina ordered impatiently.

Lunatic or not, the woman _was_ offering an exit from the room. That, at least, was progress. Madeline decided to follow for the moment -- she could ditch the woman when her back was turned.

Madeline walked through the door and emerged into a hallway, making sure to keep a safe distance away from the other woman. The hallway was brightly lit but completely empty. There was no sign of a nurses' station or a guard, only a row of identical closed doors, their green paint a sickening contrast to the sterile white walls.

Tina began to stride down the hallway purposefully. Madeline stood still, wondering if she should run the other direction, until Tina turned back to look at her.

"There's no place to run, you know."

Reluctantly, Madeline followed Tina through a maze of lookalike hallways. She tried to keep track of how many turns they had made, but eventually resigned herself to the fact that she was completely lost. Then, as they turned a corner, she stopped in her tracks, stupefied. Before her was an enormous room, full of desks and office workers. What kind of a hospital -- or prison -- was this?

"This is the central administration room. We track all of the missions here."

As they walked farther into the room, Madeline listened to the din of typewriters and voices. Telephones rang; file cabinets slammed. Men and women walked past them hurriedly, none of them giving Madeline even the slightest glance. She looked up to see gigantic maps embedded into the walls, red and blue lights flashing at various spots around the globe. At the far end of the room, behind a thick wall of glass, stood a phalanx of monstrous computers -- more than she imagined even NASA would have.

"This way," Tina called to her, crossing the room and turning down another corridor.

Moving slowly, like a sleepwalker, Madeline followed Tina down the hallway and toward a door. Tina opened it and ushered Madeline inside a small room.

"This is my office," Tina announced. "Have a seat."

Madeline sank weakly into a chair near the door, as Tina picked up a file folder from her desk and handed it to Madeline without explanation.

Madeline looked down and opened the folder. Several loose news clippings spiraled out onto the floor; hands shaking, she gathered them and then, not quite sure what she was looking for, began to read. As she did so, the waves of nausea returned, magnified by the surreal nature of what she was seeing: her own obituary, as well as several articles describing her presumed death in the fire that consumed the juvenile facility.

"But I wasn't--"

"Killed in the fire? We know that, but that's not what the outside world thinks. To everyone on the outside, you're dead."

"But there are witnesses," she protested. "I went to the jail afterwards."

"There aren't any witnesses who are willing to remember you," Tina responded with an odd, almost sympathetic expression.

Madeline looked down at the articles again, fingering them to convince herself that they were real. She hoped that she was dreaming, that she would wake up in the holding cell and have her life -- unpleasant, but familiar -- returned to her. But her heart began racing in fear; she had never experienced any sense of touch in her dreams, and the news clippings were frighteningly tactile.

"Normally, we would have photos from your funeral service as well. But for some reason you didn't have one."

Madeline blinked rapidly and swallowed a choking lump. _Of course there was no funeral. Mother told me years ago that I was already dead to her._

Taking a deep breath to maintain control over herself, Madeline looked up at Tina. It was better to focus on details -- the enormity of what was happening was simply too much to digest. "You said I was recruited because of my 'special skills'. Just what might those be?"

"I'm not in charge of selecting recruits," Tina replied with a shrug. "I just train them."

"Train them for what?"

"Undercover intelligence gathering. Our operatives are given false identities and live in the outside world. Some collect information and pass it back to us; others are just put in place somewhere in case we ever need to activate them."

"And that's what I'll be doing?"

"Eventually."

Madeline pondered this information for a moment. She tried to filter it through her prior experience -- false identities and information gathering? Perhaps this was the police, after all -- it sounded like they were asking her to become a snitch or a narc. In her experience, people like that didn't live long.

Sitting up straight, she looked Tina in the eye. "What if I choose not to?"

Tina broke eye contact briefly, as if uncomfortable with the topic. She shuffled some papers on her desk for a moment, but then looked back at Madeline. "There isn't really a choice. You either cooperate, or you'll be killed."

Madeline stared at Tina, slowly realizing that the other woman was entirely serious. "How can you get away with this? Police can't just kill people. There's...there's the Constitution, the Bill of Rights."

"We're not police, and we don't worry much about legalities. We're not even under the jurisdiction of any one particular government."

Madeline sat in silence, trying to make sense out of the unreal situation she found herself in. Kidnapped by some out-of-control secret society and forced to work...as a spy? It was almost beyond belief. Yet it sounded more pleasant than jail, maybe even more pleasant than the life on the streets that she had been trying to escape to when she set that ill-fated fire. And there was something else. If she could believe this woman, she had been selected for some sort of skill that someone recognized in her. In her entire life, no one else -- not teachers, counselors, doctors, truant officers, or police, and certainly not her parents -- had ever thought she could accomplish anything of use. But these people, whoever they were, saw some value, some potentiality. This gave her a sudden thrill of pride.

"Do you have any other questions before I take you to your new quarters?"

Madeline considered the question for a moment. She might as well try to find out as much as possible about her situation. "You said that the name of this place is Section Two."

"Yes."

"Is there a Section One? Three? Ten?"

Tina laughed. "Aha, you're a sharp one! There are three Sections that are a part of the overall organization. And they're developing more. Each one has a kind of specialty."

"What kind of specialty?"

"Section One is the biggest. It does the complex, covert missions -- the big, life-saving stuff. Section Two, like I told you, covers long-term intelligence gathering -- we get the background intelligence that Section One needs to carry out its missions. And Section Three handles run-of-the-mill assassinations and bombings -- the kind of things it would be a waste of resources to have Section One deal with. To be honest, I'm a little surprised they didn't assign you there. With your background, it would seem to be a fit."

Madeline blinked in surprise and then grew angry. The reference to her 'background' could only mean one thing -- Sarah. Even in this place -- even 'dead' -- she would never escape her past. Was _that_ the skill she had been selected for?

She stood up abruptly. "I have no more questions," she said, her voice cold.

Tina looked slightly taken aback. Almost frightened. "All right, then, let me show you to your quarters," she said, eyeing Madeline warily.

* * *

The whine cut through the darkness of the room, looping closer and closer until it swooped past Paul's ear. He wrenched his head back and forth violently despite the pain it caused him to move. He wasn't sure which was worse -- the heavy ropes twisting and contorting his body or the mosquitoes' bloodthirsty attacks.

The whine ceased as Paul felt a sensation on his forehead. He tried to blow the mosquito off; his sharply forced breath felt slightly cool on his sweat-covered skin. But the effort failed. With a slight tickle, he felt himself being punctured and clenched his jaw in helpless agony. It was this subtle torture that was driving him mad, that caused him to curse and rave. The searing pain of the ropes that bound him was so all-enveloping that he could become one with it, embrace it. But the itch of each new welt, the sting as the sweat dripped into his eyes -- each fleeting sensation drove him closer to the edge of insanity.

He began to count, in multiples of seven, in an effort to focus his mind on something, anything else. He faltered, over and over, and had to start again. He had reached 294 when the door swung open. The light of a flashlight playing on his face momentarily blinded him; he turned his head away, flinching from the pain.

The familiar voice of his chief torturer, Phan Van Nahn, reached Paul from the doorway. But instead of the standard taunts to Paul in English, or the barked orders to subordinates in Vietnamese, Paul heard soft words in French. The interrogator was speaking to someone else, a tall, dark shadow hidden behind the glare of the flashlight. The figure then responded, equally softly, his gruff voice barely audible.

Paul frowned as he tried to make out the conversation. His high school French was simply not up to the task. He had never liked the language, had never felt comfortable with its effete image and sissy nasal qualities. And he had had little use for it even in this former French colony. The ARVN liaison officers he dealt with all spoke English, as did the bargirls who provided R&amp;R. But he did recognize one thing -- the tall man's accent wasn't French. It wasn't Vietnamese, either -- and besides, Paul had never seen a Vietnamese that tall.

_Who the hell is this_? Paul wondered. Maybe a Russian -- there had been many rumors of Russian advisors and support for the North Vietnamese. The thought that he was a piece of meat being displayed for some Red Army functionary on a tour incited an almost homicidal fury. Did the Russian want a show? Paul could give him one, all right.

Paul looked directly at the dark figure and sneered. "You're not going to beat us, you fucking commie bastards!" he shouted. "You and Brezhnev both can eat merde and suck my--"

The man laughed loudly, interrupting Paul's tirade. He spoke in elegant, British-accented English. "Well, I've never met Mr. Brezhnev, but if I do, I'll send him your regards." The man then spoke again in French. "Il est trop obstiné. Laissez-moi voir quelqu'un d'autre."

"Bien sûr."

The two men departed and closed the door, returning Paul to the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

# 1999

George set down his telephone and grunted with displeasure. Opening a drawer, he reached for his bottle of antacids and hissed in annoyance when he felt nothing rattle inside. Empty again. Ah, well, there were other forms of medication available. Distilled medication, that is.

He crossed the room and reached for his decanter of Scotch, admiring the golden tone of the liquid as he poured his glass, sniffing the rich  
aroma. He took a sip -- and winced as it sent searing bolts of pain through his abdomen.

_I'm not going to have a stomach left at this rate,_ he thought, grimacing.

Days like this made him wonder why he had ever wanted this job, why he had fought and schemed so hard to achieve it. After all of that struggle, his reward was to spend his time mediating between two utterly impossible men: his ivory tower superior at Center, forever pushing elegant but thoroughly impractical strategies; and his loose-cannon, power hungry subordinate, constantly undermining his authority and plotting coups. But as the pain in his stomach subsided and his body began to warm, he smiled. Yes, it was worth enduring both of them. Let Philip spin his grand theories up in Center, let Paul do the dirty work down in Section One -- he, George, would sit back in his power center and pull the real strings.

George sipped his Scotch again as he made his way back to his desk. This time it didn't burn his stomach quite so badly. He typed at his keyboard, bringing up the file on Nikolai Markali. He shook his head, resigned but disappointed. It had taken years of careful work to push the reluctant Markali into Badenheim's embrace, and now -- just as Markali was about to join their inner circle and thus expose the entire leadership -- Paul's personal agenda intervened. Except that it wasn't just a matter of Paul's agenda, of course. If Paul discovered the truth, he might well go on a rampage -- and things were unsettled enough at the Sections without that kind of disaster. No, as much as George would enjoy seeing Paul pushed over the edge, now was not the time.

His computer beeped to indicate an incoming message. It was Section One's profile for the Markali mission, only fifteen minutes after Madeline had promised to deliver it. Prompt, as always. It was indeed a pleasant change to have Madeline as an ally. Well, 'ally' might be too strong a word -- one never knew quite where one stood with that woman. Yet he had only himself to blame -- Madeline was his misbegotten creation, just as Paul was Adrian's -- both of them reflecting their mentors' worst qualities.

There had once been a time when Madeline showed so much promise -- had indeed seemed to be a worthy successor -- but then time had passed, loyalties had subtly shifted. Their cooperation now, however, made him wonder whether all was not lost. Perhaps it was worth reaching out to her again -- testing the waters, so to speak. But he would have to think about that later. With a tired sigh, he clicked on the file and began to read the profile. It was time to see what hideous plan Paul had come up with -- and devise a way to work around it.

* * *

* * *

# 1972

Madeline tossed the book on her desk with a resounding thump. Another tedious Russian novel translated, full of dreary descriptions of tractors and heroic laborers. Tina insisted that reading them would teach Madeline about the mind-set of their enemy, but Madeline refused to believe her. Not even the most fanatically committed revolutionary would voluntarily read such things.

She fell back on her bed and stared wearily up at the ceiling, wondering when her undercover work would finally begin. Her 'secret agent' training had been, in many ways, a disappointment. Mundane, even. It was nothing more than an intensive prep-school education, seasoned with occasional exotic language study. The subjects hadn't challenged her, nor had her tutors. Indeed, she frequently found herself correcting them. She did this out of boredom, rather than arrogance, and yet it seemed to intimidate them -- a reaction which she noticed with curiosity. In the past, adults had been frightened of her because of the shocking nature of her acts. The idea that she could intimidate by something as simple as the mere display of knowledge intrigued her.

Beyond her studies, very little was asked of her. And with no one her age to socialize with, she spent her time alone. Observing. This, too, seemed to make those around her nervous. But she learned a great deal that way.

Above all, she studied the organization and the people working in it. Among other things, she noticed that the administrative staff -- that army of women typists, file clerks and transcribers -- was shrinking. In its place grew a corps of young computer technicians, tending to the sensitivities of their electronic masters. The computer room was clearly the safe place to work in Section Two, although its denizens were underappreciated.

Ostensibly, the glamorous jobs belonged to the undercover operatives. She saw how all eyes would turn to them when they visited the facility, striding through the halls like gunslingers or gladiators. Mostly men, and mostly ex-military, they behaved as if they were an elite group of heroes, saving the world out of a sense of chivalry and noblesse oblige.

Madeline viewed them very differently. In her mind, elites were not expendable, and heroes were not to be lightly cast aside. And yet Section threw these men's lives away without hesitation. In reality, she recognized, these operatives were pawns -- available for sacrifice at a moment's notice. And the life of a pawn was far from glamorous. Or safe.

The fact that the undercover operatives failed to understand their true insignificance demonstrated their foolishness. Madeline, in contrast, was no fool. She not only accepted that her life, as an individual, meant nothing here, she welcomed it. It made things simpler. In many ways, it was no different from her old life, with one great exception -- now, she served a larger cause. By recruiting Madeline, Section had thus given her something precious, irreplaceable. It had given her something to believe in. It had turned all of her faults into virtues. It had lifted her out of an aimless spiral of self-destruction and offered her redemption. The price Section demanded in return -- her life -- was one she was willing to pay. It wasn't really very much to ask. After all, wasn't she already dead?

* * *

"Welcome back," Bobby Lane, the dry-witted helicopter gunner, said, watching the guards usher Paul back into the cell and slam the door shut. "How was the spa?"

Paul smirked. The 'spa' was Lane's nickname for the swamp at the edge of the camp where uncooperative prisoners were often forced to stand, tied to posts, as punishment.

"Rejuvenating," Paul replied sarcastically. "Why, my skin has never been softer," he laughed, pulling up his damp pantleg to show his cellmates the yellow-green open sores. This time, he had only been subjected to the punishment for forty-eight hours, so his wounds had escaped the worst of the insect egg-laying. Other times he had not been so lucky.

"God damn," Franklin Fredericks, the medic, exclaimed. "Let me clean you up."

Paul joined Fredericks on the grimy rattan mat and pulled up his pantlegs to his knees. He leaned back on his hands and spread out his legs stiffly, wincing as Fredericks poked at the sores.

"That doesn't look very clean," Paul said worriedly, eyeing the small shred of cloth Fredericks had ripped from his shirt.

"It's cleaner than that muck you're covered in," Fredericks replied, dabbing the cloth on Paul's wounds. "It's a miracle you haven't gotten gangrene yet, as many times as they've sent you out there."

The pressure applied on Paul's wounds burned savagely; he drew sharp breaths through gritted teeth until Fredericks was done. Then, looking around the room, he noticed something odd. Two days before, he had left five men in this cell. Now, there were only four.

"Where's Gallo?" Paul asked.

The four men looked at each other nervously.

"They took him last night," Lane whispered. "Phan and some white dude. I think it's the one we keep hearing about."

Paul tensed his body angrily. Ever since his first encounter with the tall, French-speaking stranger, rumors had been circulating throughout the camp -- stories of a mysterious Westerner, appearing in the dead of night and picking out men to be led away. No one knew the fate of the missing prisoners; however, speculation was rampant and increasingly lurid -- mass executions, medical experiments, brainwashing.

Paul had dismissed all the stories as nonsense at first, assuming that the missing men had been transferred to other camps. But then he had started to notice a pattern -- the men who disappeared were invariably the weakest among them, the ones who had their spirits broken. Concerned, Paul had started attempting to protect those whom he saw as likely targets -- whenever a guard began to pick on someone vulnerable, Paul would create a distraction, drawing the wrath of their captors onto himself. But he couldn't protect everyone, not all the time -- and this time, it was his frightened young cellmate who was missing -- a kid only three months out of high school, who barely even needed to shave yet. A kid who cried for his mother every night.

_You fucking Russian bastard,_ Paul thought, _God help you if I ever get my hands on you._

* * *

The soft knock at the door didn't register at first, so engrossed was George in the efficiency ratings for Section Three. The results of his new recruiting program were beyond his most optimistic expectations; the quality of the assassins his source had procured was extraordinary. If only he could convince Adrian to maintain a similar hands-off attitude toward Section Two, George could work the same miracle there.

He had spent the morning performing the annual reviews of Section Two's first-year recruits -- most of them Adrian's choices, the typical assortment of cowboys and adventurers, well adapted for Section One but completely unsuitable for Section Two's undercover work. Adrian always insisted on selecting operatives with tendencies toward holding strong principles -- individuals who could be converted into true believers for the Agency's cause. But in Section Two, Adrian's true believers were always the first to have their covers blown -- they seemed incapable of the moral ambiguity necessary to lead false lives for years at a time.

The tapping at his door grew slightly more insistent, and he realized that another recruit must have arrived. Glancing at the list on his desk to see who was next, he sighed in relief. It was Madeline, the troubled teenager he had personally selected the prior year. Finally -- a chance to assess someone who might actually have an aptitude for undercover work.

He looked toward the door eagerly. "Come in," he called, pushing away from his desk to lean back in his chair.

The door opened and Madeline entered. Dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, she stood stiffly at attention, her hands clasped in front of her like a soldier. Her stance looked slightly odd, given her youth and gender, but it matched the disciplined intensity of her expression. Nodding, George gestured for her to sit down; she took a seat in front of his desk, but remained rigid and formal.

"Do you know who I am, Madeline?" George asked. He adopted a relaxed, almost indifferent attitude, the better to disguise his careful analysis of her demeanor. Putting recruits at ease was the best way to test them; when they let their guard down, they often revealed latent flaws.

"I'm told you have some position of authority here, sir." Her tone seemed calculatedly deferential, but she was otherwise unreadable.

"Please," he said, smiling, "call me George."

"All right, George," she agreed, matching his smile with one of her own. It was a faint smile -- polite, but not too warm.

"I do indeed have a position of authority here," George explained. "The commander of all of the Sections is a lady by the name of Adrian. I am her second-in-command."

"I see."

"While Adrian and I are jointly in control of all of the Sections, we have worked out an informal division of labor. Section One -- the busiest Section -- occupies Adrian almost full-time. As a result, she leaves day-to-day operations at Two and Three to me. That makes me, de facto, your boss."

Madeline nodded but said nothing.

"I always wait until new recruits have completed their initial training before I see them. No sense wasting my time with someone who isn't going to work out."

Madeline remained silent and utterly impassive looking. George smiled in approval -- he appreciated a good poker face.

"Now, however," he announced, "it's time we got to know each other."

He looked down at her file and flipped through the pages, pausing to read some of the comments made by her trainers. 'Superficially friendly, but evasive,' wrote one. 'A strange mixture of intensity and coldness,' wrote another. The trainers had deemed these negative qualities; George, however, strongly disagreed.

He scanned the file further, refreshing his memory regarding her background. He had forgotten the details of the numerous foster families, the repeated institutionalizations, the habitual running away to live on the streets, and the increasingly serious crimes. But one thing stood out clearly in his memory, as powerful as the first day he had read it. It was the report of the child psychologist who had interviewed her on the day of her sister's death. The psychologist had found the young girl quite cognizant of the significance of what she had done -- fully aware of the meaning and finality of death -- but casually unremorseful. When asked why she had pushed her sister to her death, she had shrugged, and answered plainly: 'I wanted the doll.'

George had seen many evil things in his life -- deaths, betrayals, atrocities -- and yet that simple sentence had chilled him on a level he had never before experienced. It chilled him still, even though he knew that the other doctors who had examined the girl over the years were unanimous in the opinion that she was not a psychopath -- that her remark during the interview was a product of shock, not of her real attitude. He wasn't certain whether to believe them -- or even if he wanted to. The possibilities of a truly amoral operative were quite intriguing.

Setting the file aside, he looked back up at her. "You've had quite a career for someone so young," he observed dryly. "It makes me curious, actually. Why would a bright young lady such as yourself do such very foolish things?"

"It's what people expected of me," she answered bluntly.

"Do you always do what people expect?"

George smiled at her, wondering if she would fall into the trap that he had set. An affirmative answer would suggest that she was easily manipulated; a negative answer might indicate that she was unreliable. She seemed to recognize the dilemma, because it took her some time to answer.

"I try to exceed people's expectations."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, quite pleased with the response. A direct answer, yet still evasive. Very, very neat. He studied her for a few moments, trying -- and failing -- to read any expression in her eyes, and then withdrew a checklist from her file.

"Your records indicate that you've engaged in quite a number of petty -- and not so petty -- crimes. But I'd like to know if you've done other things -- things you weren't caught at, that didn't make it into the official records."

"All right."

He looked at the first item on his checklist. "Burglary, or break-ins?"

"Yes."

"Robbery?"

"You mean holding up a store, mugging someone, or something like that? No."

"Have you ever handled a weapon at all?"

"No."

"Hmm," he grunted, placing a checkmark on his list.

"Drug use?"

"No."

"Really? It seems to be the thing to do among people your age these days."

"I've had enough drugs forced on me in hospitals. I like to keep my mind clear, thank you."

"So you're at least familiar with the effects of drugs?"

"Very."

"Good." He looked back at his list. "Prostitution?"

She looked away, for the first time appearing disconcerted.

"I take it that's a yes."

She looked back at him with just a hint of belligerence. "Why do you need to know this?"

"So that we can determine what you need training in, and what you are already experienced with."

"You would train me in those things?" Her eyes widened in genuine shock.

"The skill sets for crime and espionage overlap to a large degree."

He watched her face as she took in this statement. Perhaps now she would know what was in store for her as an operative. It was better if she did -- the sooner operatives became reconciled to the more distasteful parts of their work, the easier things were.

"Up until now, your training has been designed to help you catch up academically -- to overcome some of the limitations of your background. Now, however, your real training will begin."

* * *

With a flourish, Adrian initialed the bottom of the memo and handed it to her waiting secretary. "Please take this to George," she instructed.

The young woman looked down at the document, paled as she saw the contents, and nodded. "Yes, ma'am." She walked out of the office hastily.

Adrian stood and stretched, fatigued from the morning's efforts. She had reviewed the latest intelligence reports from China, analyzed and approved a massive upgrade of Section One's computer systems, and assigned twenty-seven operatives to abeyance status -- the last being the subject of the memo that had so frightened her mistake-prone secretary.

She sighed, reaching out to adjust the roses in the vase at the corner of her desk. The younger operatives were such a disappointment these days, entirely lacking in both discipline and dedication. In her memo, Adrian had outlined a plan of action that she hoped would streamline the training process and weed out the weak operatives before too much time and resources were wasted on them. But she knew that would not be enough. It wasn't simply a matter of poor training -- it was the inability to find the right sort of recruits.

In the old days, operatives had believed in Section One's cause even before being recruited, had believed in the values of democracy and Western civilization, and had known the difference between good and evil. But times had changed. Young people no longer believed in anything, or if they did, they turned moral values upside down -- idealizing violence and revolution and rejecting the cultural values of their own society. It was becoming almost impossible to rehabilitate them, to instill loyalty in them. Instead, she found it necessary to rely more and more on threats and punishments. That worked, to a degree, among lower-level operatives. But it was quite inappropriate for motivating potential leaders. And that posed a serious problem.

The Sections were only the first in a series of Adrian's dreams. The Sections existed to save the world from the grip of barbarism, but she also hoped to form institutions that were in the business of creating civilization instead of merely defending it. That, of course, would require a very different kind of organization from the Sections; in turn, that would necessitate passing on the stewardship of the Sections to a new generation. But without a protégé, someone she could train and mentor, it would all be impossible. And, sadly, there was no one in her organization that she trusted to protect her creation, no one who could be relied upon to preserve her vision and ensure that it outlived her. This haunted her, causing her to screen potential recruits obsessively, hoping to find that ideal candidate. But she was always disappointed.

The newest recruit brought into Section One was a perfect illustration of the dilemma. On paper, Charles Sand was ideal: a Captain in the SAS, with distinguished service in Oman. But when she met him, she knew instantly that he would not do. Oh, he would make an excellent -- even outstanding -- operative. But there was something missing, a vague absence that evaded description. A lack of charisma, perhaps. To lead Section One, one would need to inspire immediate and unquestioning obedience. Sand simply did not. Indeed, so far, she had only known one person who had that quality -- herself.

* * *

Madeline stood near the back of the room, hiding behind the other operatives in order to avoid showing her disappointment. When she had been told that she would begin martial arts training with a group of female recruits, she had expected the teacher to be some severe-looking Japanese man in a starched white uniform. Instead, she found herself staring at a fragile middle-aged woman in a pretty but conservative dress.

The woman had introduced herself and announced with a pleasant smile that she would begin teaching them knife skills. Madeline had stifled a laugh -- she couldn't imagine this demure lady with the soft voice knowing anything about knives, except perhaps which one went with which fork. So she had quietly moved to the rear of the class, bored and disdainful.

Reaching into a pocket hidden in her dress, the woman pulled out a small, wood-handled knife. She held it out for the class to inspect. It was delicate, like its owner, with elaborate carvings on the handle.

"A blade is a very handy weapon," she explained. "You can't always carry a gun, especially when you are wearing revealing clothing -- as some of you will be doing. But it is easy to conceal something sharp -- in a shoe, inside your sleeve, even in your hair. You'd be surprised what you can do with something as simple as a hairpin. Especially a Section-issued hairpin," she added with a smile.

Several of the women in the class laughed at the last remark.

"With such a weapon, the best method of attack is to deceive. You don't have to fight fair -- that's for men in fistfights or duels."

The woman palmed the knife, hiding the edge flat against her arm so that, to those standing in front of her, she looked weaponless. She walked slowly toward them, her eyes cast down, her manner seemingly fearful and cringing.

"Act weak and helpless. Or be friendly," she said, straightening her posture and smiling warmly. "Then, when you are close -- too close for them to even see your weapon -- then you attack." In an instant, she had the knife drawn against a terrified operative's neck. She had moved so quickly that Madeline -- from her vantage point in the rear -- had no idea how she had moved from one position to the other. Startled, Madeline stepped forward to get a better view.

"When you strike, you mustn't hesitate or hold back. You must be vicious, bloodthirsty, and willing to maim and kill. But above all, you must never let them see it coming."

Madeline watched, entranced, as the woman demonstrated her attacks, again and again. They were beautiful in their sheer cunning, so much more elegant than the shooting techniques they had practiced the day before. And her words, too, resonated with wisdom. Enemies were best defeated by deception as opposed to brute force; an attack -- of any kind -- should never be signaled, should never even be visible until it was too late. Feigned weakness was the best strength; false kindness was the best cruelty.

These were lessons that could apply to much, much more than fighting. They were a guide to life.

* * *

Paul grasped the tiny shard of bamboo in his hand, hiding it from view of the guard who watched over him as he crawled out of the cage where he had been imprisoned for the past week. It was beginning to be a joke among his fellow prisoners -- hardly a day went by when his attitude didn't annoy the guards and provoke a new punishment. But this time the punishment had offered a reward -- the rotting bamboo cage where he had crouched in solitary confinement had yielded bits of itself to his prying fingers. He wasn't certain what he would use the bamboo for yet, but it could be a useful tool. It was strong enough to dig through the dirt, as long as he was patient, and sharp enough to poke or saw through restraints. It was a treasure, and he would guard it carefully.

He shuffled slowly back toward the building holding his cell, his legs not quite stable after the long days curled up in the tiny cage. The guard prodded at him impatiently with the barrel of his rifle -- apparently, he wasn't going fast enough. He cursed inwardly, and then moved aside on the path to allow a group of Vietnamese soldiers to pass the other direction. He looked down so as to avoid eye contact and a potential confrontation.

Four men passed by, but then the fifth caused Paul to look up in surprise. The man was wearing boots several sizes larger than anyone else. When Paul raised his head, he found himself staring into a pair of piercing blue eyes.

A tall, blond man in fatigues looked at him coldly and then began to step past him. Paul stared in horror, realizing instinctively that this was the mystery man -- the nighttime visitor who was thinning the prisoners' ranks, bit by bit, man by man. At first, Paul was paralyzed, standing helplessly as the man walked purposefully away. But then, with an explosion of adrenaline, Paul leapt after him. He grabbed the man by the shoulder, spun him around, and plunged the bamboo piece into his throat.

The blood spurted thickly into Paul's face and soaked his chest as the man fell against him, gurgling and choking. Paul stepped backwards and watched the man fall to the ground, writhe briefly, and grow still. He looked up again to see at least ten guns turned on him, and he braced himself for the sting of the bullets that no doubt would cut him down.

He jumped as he heard Phan's shrill voice call out orders. The guns lowered, and Phan pushed his way through several of his men to stand, red-faced with fists clenched, in front of Paul.

"You've just caused me a lot of trouble, lieutenant." Phan leaned close to Paul as he spoke, and faint flecks of spit landed on Paul's face. "The only reason I'm going to keep you alive is because the other men look up to you. If I killed you now, it would cause discipline problems in the entire camp. But believe me, you're going to pay for this, one way or another."

"Do whatever you want," Paul answered, half-dazed but defiant. "I wasn't going to just stand there and let that Russian take my friends away."

Phan laughed. "That was no Russian."

"Who was he, then?"

"Someone who wasn't supposed to be here." Phan smiled mockingly. "Someone who doesn't exist."


	3. Chapter 3

# 1999

George had read the Markali profile three times. The first time, he was confused; the second, disbelieving; and the third, furious. The elaborate plan was completely unnecessary if the goal were merely to take out Markali: any number of contrived scandals could have done that. This plan -- dependent on so many different pieces coming together perfectly -- could only be justified if the goal were something more. Something he strenuously disapproved of.

He snatched up his telephone with a frown and dialed Madeline's number.

"Hello, George," she said smoothly. She had obviously been expecting his call.

"This is completely out of hand. It was bad enough when I thought he was going after Markali out of jealousy for marrying his ex-wife. But I see the goal is to make her pay, too. That's completely unacceptable, and you know that."

"I wouldn't be so quick to judge his motivations," Madeline countered. "There is a logic to the approach."

"Logic?" he asked mockingly. "You know, over the years you've raised defending him to an art form, but I think this one surpasses even your talents."

"Markali is extremely popular in a country where dirty politics is the norm," Madeline explained, ignoring George's comment. "The only way to get rid of him without arousing public suspicion of a set-up is to have it be a family matter. Unfortunately, that means that she has to be sacrificed. I don't see any alternatives. I truly wish I did."

George grunted. As much as it galled him, she was probably right. But then she always managed to find such persuasive, utterly convincing reasons to justify even Paul's most self-serving behavior. Sometimes George wondered if she didn't sit up at night trying to come up with them.

"Well," he said, changing the subject, "was Nikita your idea?"

"No."

"She's completely wrong for this, you know. I've read her psych evaluation –- she won't be able to do it."

"We'll see."

Madeline was completely noncommittal, as usual. He found it an admirable trait -- except when it was aimed at him. If George could have reached out through the telephone and slapped her, he would have. Instead, he opted for a verbal blow.

"It's almost as if he's lashing out at women on this mission -- driving his ex-wife insane, forcing Nikita to do valentine work." He paused, timing his next statement for maximum effect. "I'd be careful if I were you, my dear. You never know when he might start blaming you for his problems."

The line was silent for several moments. George smiled -- he knew her well enough to recognize when he had succeeded in rattling her composure.

"As you can see, I'll need some help from you to set things up." Madeline steered the subject back to the mission, but her voice had chilled slightly.

"Of course. Everything will be prepared." He smiled again. "I'm always here to help, Madeline. With any problem you might have."

* * *

* * *

# 1973

"Now, make sure you don't touch anything unless I tell you to," Perry, the computer technician, warned. It was obvious from the sharpness of his tone that he considered Madeline and the other recruit following him around the room to be technological morons, capable of causing disaster with a single brush against a keyboard.

Madeline looked over at Christine, the other recruit, and rolled her eyes. Christine winked in return. George had recently instituted a policy requiring all operatives to be given at least rudimentary computer instruction, but the policy had encountered resistance from the technical staff.

"Well, let me ask you, then," Madeline asked, her tone innocent, "is it a problem that I was playing around on that terminal over there while we were waiting for you to show up?"

"Playing around?" A look of horror swept across Perry's thin face.

"I just wanted to see what it would do," Madeline said with a shrug.

"Which terminal?" Perry's voice cracked in panic.

"That one," she answered, pointing across the room with a frown of mock concern.

As Perry rushed over to inspect the terminal's display, knocking over a chair in his haste, Christine covered her mouth with her hand and snorted with laughter. Madeline hadn't touched the terminal, as Christine well knew. Madeline kept a straight face, but turned to Christine and arched an eyebrow in amusement.

Now that Madeline had ended her solitary academic studies and joined the group training sessions, she had developed more of a rapport with the other operatives. There were still barriers -- her young age foremost among them -- but she had developed a cordial relationship with most of the recruits, as well as a reputation for a dry sense of humor. It was a relief to her to be less isolated, even if none of them were truly friends. It was also a relief that none of them seemed to know anything about her history -- to them, she was simply a rather precocious recruit, not a criminal or a monster. Indeed, by burying herself in her training, she had almost begun to forget her past herself.

"Well," Perry said, straightening up with a relieved look, "you didn't do any harm. But don't ever, ever do that again!"

"Oh, absolutely not. I'm so sorry."

Perry took a deep breath. "Okay. Now, most of the stuff you'll need to see is downstairs, so follow me."

As Perry began to head toward a flight of stairs in the corner of the room, the main doors opened. He suddenly stood stiff at attention, yanking up the belt of his slightly sagging jeans. Madeline followed his gaze and saw that George had entered the room, accompanied by a well-dressed, red-haired woman with an air of authority.

"Hello, Perry," George said. "I wanted to show Adrian our new purchases. Are you busy?"

"I was about to give these two a tour of the facilities, but that can wait."

"No, no, there's no reason you can't do both," George insisted. "You wouldn't mind having two of our recruits tagging along, would you,  
Adrian?"

"Not at all," Adrian answered graciously. "I'm always delighted to meet our operatives."

George stepped forward and gestured toward Christine. "This is Christine. Christine, this is Adrian."

Christine offered her hand, and Adrian shook it warmly. "So glad to meet you, my dear. I've heard such good things about you."

George then turned to Madeline. "And this is Madeline."

Madeline began to extend her hand, but stopped short when she saw the withering expression on Adrian's face.

"Oh, yes, the...arsonist. Among other things." Adrian gave Madeline a look that could only be described as revulsion.

There was a long silence, and then, clearing his throat uncomfortably, Perry began to lead them toward the stairs. George followed, and then Christine. But before Christine could step down, Adrian gently caught her by the arm and gave her a small smile.

"If I were you, dear, I'd let Madeline go down the stairs first."

Madeline froze in place. Adrian's calculated cruelty -- executed with a beneficent smile and a sweetly patrician tone -- was somehow terrifying. She felt herself go white as the woman's hawk-like eyes examined her, coldly assessing the impact of the remark. It wasn't until George walked back up the stairs and touched her arm that she realized that she had been holding her breath.

"I completely forgot, Madeline -- Wilson had asked if you could join him for an extra session on the shooting range. He seems to think you're ready for some rifle practice. He's probably waiting for you now."

Madeline blinked several times to recover her composure and then looked at George. He had lied, a fact which was no doubt obvious to everyone. But she was grateful nonetheless.

"Thank you," she said, trying to control the tremor in her voice. "I'll go straight there."

She glanced in Adrian's direction again, flinching inwardly when she saw the look of knowing triumph in the other woman's eyes, and exited the room.

* * *

Adrian returned to her office, fighting a powerful urge to wash her hands after meeting Section Two's youngest recruit. Madeline had been even more disturbing in person than Adrian had expected, with that emotionless expression, that cool, controlled voice, and those eyes -- almost black, reflecting nothing. Adrian had been unable to bring herself to touch the young woman's extended hand, unable to help herself from bringing up her dreadful background. But she had been both surprised and pleased to see that her behavior provoked a reaction. The girl did at least feel fear -- and that meant she could still be controlled.

With a slight shudder, Adrian forced the memory of the encounter from her mind and sat at her desk. There was a pile of files to attend to, as always. She glanced at them in an effort to decide where to begin, when one folder caught her eye.

'Potential Recruit -- SE Asia,' the label read.

Adrian reached for the file and began reading.

Lieutenant Paul Wolfe, U.S. Army. He had been captive in Vietnam for the past seven years, much of it in solitary confinement or undergoing unspeakable torture. He had never broken, and his example had inspired the same level of resistance from every single one of his fellow captives. Although not the highest-ranking officer held in his camp, he had been regarded as the de facto leader, and his captors had made him suffer for it.

Adrian read every word in Wolfe's file with rapt amazement. She knew -- knew without even having to see the man -- that he was the one, the successor that she had been searching for. To have assumed moral leadership of over one hundred men, despite his low rank -- and to have survived for seven long years doing so -- he had to have a strength of character that was unsurpassed. A man like him -- someone who had resisted the enemy without wavering even once -- would know, instinctively, how important Section One's work was. This man knew the enemy and knew what evil was -- and he had shown that he would not compromise with either one. He was the perfect antidote to the cynical young people who increasingly made up the organization's ranks, the natural leader for the next generation.

George would resist, of course. He always argued against recruiting operatives with strong principles -- he saw them as headstrong and difficult to work with. As capable as George was, that was his one weakness. Indeed, if she left things up to him, he would fill their organization with people like Madeline -- amoral creatures who would turn the Agency into a soulless bureaucracy.

Thank God, Paul Wolfe could save them from that.

* * *

"I've been very pleased with the progress of your training," George said, leaning back in his chair. In fact, he was more than pleased -- she had turned out to be everything that he had hoped for.

Madeline looked back at him, wearing the standard polite expression that she used during all their interactions. "Thank you."

"In fact, I believe you're ready for your first assignment."

George picked up a file folder from the table and handed it to her.

"This is your profile," he announced. "Study it carefully. You'll need to memorize everything in it, as you won't be able to take it with  
you."

Madeline opened the folder and began leafing through it.

"We've enrolled you under a false name as a university student in Paris. The details of your identity and background are in the file. You'll be leaving in three days. Esther will give you some clothing and other belongings to pack before you depart."

Madeline looked up at George with a puzzled expression.

"What is my mission?" she asked. The file contained background information on her new identity, but nothing else.

"For now, your mission is to establish your identity. And to meet your handlers when ordered to. Nothing more." George paused, wondering whether to tell her what the nature of her mission really was, how critical -- but dangerous -- it would be, but then decided it was premature. "That will be all."

She stood and turned to leave. As he watched her, he reconsidered his decision. He might not be able to provide her with specifics, but perhaps some sort of warning was appropriate.

"Don't get too comfortable with your situation," he called out as she exited the room. "Section may not ask much of you for the time being, but that will change."

* * *

George set his teacup down with a clatter, scowling at the file spread out on the table before him. He shook his head, a frown creasing his forehead.

"This Wolfe isn't a good candidate. He's too obstinate, too headstrong. We won't be able to work with him."

Adrian smiled and took a sip of her tea. George was so predictable. She had anticipated almost every word of his objection.

"That's what makes him perfect. I want a leader, not a follower, George."

George's frown deepened. "And he'll resist -- or try to escape. He hasn't seen his family in seven years -- do you think a man like that would just abandon them?"

"We'll just have to convince him, then, won't we?"

George looked away, his expression sour. That look, combined with the faint shadow that darkened his cheeks where he needed to shave, made him look surprisingly old for his age -- old and tired. All the more reason why they needed new blood, Adrian decided.

"I want him, George," she said firmly. "Do whatever is necessary to persuade him to join us. If the family is a problem, perhaps we can break that bond somehow. What if he found out that his wife was unfaithful?"

"But she wasn't."

"Why should that get in the way?" Adrian gave George a pointed look.

George sighed. He was still resisting. As fond as she was of her second-in-command, perhaps he needed to be reminded who was in charge.

"We have means, George. Use them." She used the coldest tone she could summon.

He nodded silently and drank again from his cup. By the sag in his shoulders, she could tell that she had won this battle. However, it wouldn't hurt to make her point completely clear.

"By the way, George, I don't want to hear about any convenient accidents or suicides. I know you don't approve of recruiting him, but it's my decision."

She smiled at him warmly, recognizing that her assertion of authority had registered when she saw the momentary flash in his eyes.

"I've tolerated some of your choices for recruits," she reminded him. "You'll have to do the same with mine."

* * *

Home. The thought of returning home filled Paul's heart with a joy that he hadn't felt in seven hideous years. He had barely even been able to think about home after the first year or two of captivity -- the longing and loneliness had become too hard to take.

But now, he was going home. It made the years of suffering worthwhile -- the torture, the loss of friends to starvation and disease, the taunting by his captors as the war turned against the Americans. All of those memories would disappear as soon as he got home, he was sure of it.

He grinned and joked with his buddies as he waited in line to climb into the trucks that would take them out of the camp. The mood was upbeat and jovial, despite the knowledge that they were on the losing  
side.

"Man, the first thing I'm gonna do is eat a big T-bone steak, french fries, and a chocolate sundae," an emaciated-looking private said, bouncing up and down with excitement.

"I'm going to one of those all-you-can eat places. They're going to have to drag me out of there," laughed another prisoner.

"Food? Shit, you boys are pathetic," said another. "I'm going to find some hot mama and make love, not war!"

The line of soldiers laughed raucously. Paul couldn't remember the last time he had heard such laughter -- genuine laughter, not the bitter laughter of men trying to forget their misery.

The line moved ahead as the POWs continued to climb into the trucks. Paul stepped forward with them, but turned as he felt a tap on his arm. He looked to see a Vietnamese guard standing next to him.

"You come with me," the guard ordered.

"What?"

"Phan wants to talk to you."

"Well, Phan can go fuck himself. I'm not a prisoner anymore, remember?"

The guard pulled out a pistol and held it to Paul's face. "You come with me," he repeated.

A silence hushed the line of men as they watched to see what Paul would do. The guard's hand trembled, and a bead of sweat slowly trickled down his temple; he looked nervous, as if a sudden movement or loud noise might provoke him into shooting. Not wanting to endanger himself -- or the other men who were so close to escaping this place of horror -- Paul backed down.

"Fine. I guess Phan wants to give me his goodbyes personally. Hold a place for me in the truck, boys."


	4. Chapter 4

# 1999

After listening to George hang up on the other end of the line, Madeline set down her phone wearily and turned back to her computer. She had so much work to catch up on -- not just for the Markali mission, but also several others -- that she knew it would be yet another late and tiring night. As a change of pace, she pulled up the profile for Sri Lanka -- a mission going live three days hence. For a few pleasant moments, she lost herself in the details of strategy and became one with her work -- immersed in the sweeping curves of the graphs that flashed colorfully across her screen, absorbed by the pristine clarity of the data that she assessed and balanced. But as she continued to type, George's words crept out from the back of her mind, jarring her focus.

George was entirely right: Nikita was the worst choice possible for the Markali mission. The thought of how many different ways the reckless young operative could cause things to go wrong made Madeline physically ill with dread. But Paul had insisted upon using Nikita, growing angry and defensive when Madeline tried to convince him otherwise.

Nikita was such an odd choice for the profile, and yet it wasn't the first time Paul had involved the young woman in a mission that affected him personally -- he had done the same two years before when the life of his son was threatened. Madeline wasn't supposed to know about that, of course. Paul hadn't told her. He hadn't believed that she would be willing to bend the rules for Stephen, hadn't even trusted her to look the other way while he did so. Normally, he trusted her with everything. The fact that the one exception involved the welfare of his son was the greatest of ironies, although he didn't know it -- indeed, could never be allowed to know it. But she recognized it all too well. It had gnawed at her relentlessly for those two years, opening up an ugly gash in her soul -- a gash that this mission was causing to fester.

The details of the Sri Lanka mission faded into a blur. She sat staring at her computer screen, numb and motionless, until she finally closed her eyes, placed her hands flat on the cool glass of her desk, and forced her mind to clear. It was for his own good that she kept this knowledge from him. She had to keep believing that. The alternative -- that she had betrayed him -- was too awful to contemplate.

* * *

* * *

# 1975

Paul crossed the main floor slowly, taking in the layout and personnel of his new workplace, absorbing every detail for future reference. Section One intrigued him. While it had some of the feel of a military organization, it exuded a subtler, more complex kind of energy. It wasn't the complexity of an organization like the Pentagon, where he had worked briefly as a young Army officer before shipping out to Vietnam. No, that had been the ponderous convolution of a vast, inflexible bureaucracy. Section One's complexity was different, almost organic -- it felt like the workings of a single, devious mind. He found himself drawn to it, wanting to understand it. Wanting to match wits with it.

He no longer regretted leaving his old life behind. In fact, he had no "old life" left to return to, as the surveillance photos of Corinne with her series of boyfriends made clear. Once past the initial blind outrage, he had settled into a more tolerable bitterness. Yes, she had betrayed him, not even waiting three months after his tour of duty began before turning to other men for comfort. But that proved her weakness, not his. Her shallowness freed him to pursue what he felt, more and more, was his calling -- protecting the vulnerable and the innocent. He had been unable to do it in the Army -- in fact, he was never sure who the innocent really were in Vietnam, where everyone seemed to be the enemy. But here, it was possible. Here, many things were possible.

His thoughts came to a halt as he noticed the eyes of another man upon him, observing him from a distant corner. A lanky man with long hair and a bandana stared at him with an odd look, almost of recognition. Paul felt a twinge of fear rise slowly up the back of his neck.

_This man knows me, but I don't know him,_ he thought.

Paul began to sweat with a thin sheen of apprehension. The look the man was giving him reminded him of the nightmares he kept having -- terrifying dreams of people and events that seemed bizarrely familiar, that he felt he ought to know -- but didn't. The dreams created a sense of disorientation that followed him into his waking hours, despite his efforts to block them out with constant work and activity.

This was the first time he had felt that same, nagging familiarity while awake -- although perhaps that provided an opportunity. He glanced again at the man and then swallowed. He couldn't confront his dreams, but he could damn well confront this person.

He walked slowly but confidently across the room, his footsteps echoing sharply, until he stood before the man.

"Do I know you?" Paul asked in a manner intended to be faintly provocative.

The other man shuffled his feet slightly, looking startled and uncomfortable. "No -- you must be thinking of someone else."

"Well, it's funny -- you were sure looking at me like you knew me from somewhere."

The two men stood while an awkward silence grew between them. The other man finally broke it. "Nah," he said with a shake of his head. "I was just noticing that you were one of the new ones."

Then the man extended his hand with a grin. Paul took it and noticed the man's firm grip. It was odd -- standing in front of the man, Paul no longer felt any sense of apprehension. Perhaps his dreams were starting to distort his perception of reality -- this was just an ordinary operative, not someone to be concerned about.

"Welcome aboard," the man said pleasantly. "I'm Walter."

"Paul."

"So you've finished your training?"

"Yeah. They had me studying languages for a couple of years -- Russian, Czech, a lot of those Eastern European languages."

"That's all the training you got?" Walter sounded both incredulous and a little worried.

"I didn't need anything else. I'm a combat vet." Paul straightened his shoulders and looked him in the eye. "You got a problem with that?"

Walter frowned. "No. Why?"

"You dress like some hippie. I thought you might be some antiwar protester. You know, the kind that goes around spitting on people like me." Paul narrowed his eyes to glare at the other man. If he were going to have to confront someone about his background, it was better to do it sooner rather than later.

Walter matched Paul's stare with one of his own, adding a resentful scowl. "I've been here throughout the whole war, son. In charge of weapons, by the way. You know, the weapons that you're gonna rely on to save your ass out in the field. The ones that you want to be in good working order."

Realizing he had misjudged the man, Paul relaxed his expression. Walter looked Paul up and down for a moment, but then chuckled.

"Look, man, I dress like this because it makes me look good. Don't want to disappoint the ladies, you know?"

"Ah, say no more," Paul laughed and clapped Walter on the back. "Hey, since you're an old-timer, got any words of advice?"

"Sure. Keep your head down, cover your ass, and be nice to the weapons-master."

"Well, anyone who knows me knows that I don't believe in the first two. But I'll follow your advice on the last one."

* * *

The anteroom to the office overflowed with operatives; the handful of chairs were full, so several men sprawled on the floor. They were waiting -- and had been waiting all morning -- to be summoned to see George. Some read books, others chewed gum, still others nodded off to sleep, looking up only when the next person's name was called.

Section Two normally managed its operatives through lower-level handlers, but once a year George required personal meetings. This was Madeline's second such debrief. The first, the year before, had lasted all of five minutes, and she had resented having to wait all day just to be dismissed so quickly. This time, however, she was more accepting. The annual visit was the only chance she had to see her fellow operatives and exchange stories about their assignments. If she paid sufficient attention, the conversation in the anteroom could actually be instructive. She looked carefully around the room, observing each person, trying to guess the nature of their missions.

A slight movement across the room caught her eye. A muscular operative named Thomas stood up and slowly walked toward her, the leather of his Hells Angels jacket creaking ominously. He stopped in front of her, but looked down at Christine, a frail-looking woman with light brown hair, who sat in the chair next to Madeline. Madeline remembered both of them from her days as a recruit -- Christine, Madeline's partner for many training assignments, she had thought well of; Thomas, she hadn't. In fact, Madeline's most vivid memory of him was the tantrum he threw when she outscored him at the shooting range.

"So what kind of mission requires such fancy outfits?" he asked with a slight sneer. Christine was indeed unusually well dressed compared to the others, most of whom wore clothes to match their roles as terrorist hangers-on or criminals.

"My mission has been to go out on dates. Lots of dates," Christine replied with a coy smile.

The operatives gathered in the room burst out laughing.

"There's got to be more to it than that," Thomas said in disbelief.

"No, I'm completely serious. I don't know if this is leading up to something else, but that's really all they require of me. Otherwise, I just lead a quiet life."

Thomas pursed his lips and scratched his beard in thought.

"Sounds pretty cushy. You must be one of those sleeper agents who won't go into action for years." He sighed. "I'm stuck dealing drugs to some pretty heavy-duty bad guys. It's my job to listen to them when they're high and see if they give away any intel. That is, when they're not playing in the kitchen with explosives. One of these days they're going to blow themselves up, and I just hope to God I'm not there."

"Yeah, consider yourself lucky," another operative, Sandra, interjected. "I'm _married_ to a terrorist. And the things he makes me do...." She gave a slight shudder as her voice trailed off.

Looking faintly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking, Christine turned away from Sandra and Thomas. "So what do you do, Madeline?"

"I'm a university student," Madeline answered simply.

"That's it?" Sandra asked. "You're not spying on student radicals or something?"

"No. In fact, I've been told to stay away from them."

"You're just going to school -- and Section's paying for it?" Thomas asked, snorting derisively.

"That's about it," Madeline replied with a small smile.

Sandra and Thomas stared at her for several moments.

"Well, I really got screwed over here," Sandra protested.

"You and me both, sister," said Thomas. "Man, you and me both."

Madeline listened to their complaints with a feeling of sadness. They would think her insane, but she actually envied them. They were on real missions, against real enemies, with real goals. She, in contrast, lived in a sort of suspended animation, waiting for something to happen, not knowing if it ever would.

At first, she had enjoyed her student experience immensely -- it was the first time she could remember leading anything close to a normal life. Better than normal, actually -- to be posted to such a glamorous place as Paris -- with her own apartment and a generous allowance -- was an almost unimaginable luxury, so far removed from her old life that it almost defied comprehension. She had reveled in her new-found freedom, blowing the entire first month's allowance on clothes and having to resort to living on bread for weeks afterwards. It would have seemed like a dream come true, except that Madeline had never allowed herself the weakness of indulging in fantasies.

There were, of course, requirements, but they had seemed quite minor -- for a time. School was the only significant one. Section's choice for her major -- psychology -- had unnerved her; in fact, the selection struck her as a twisted joke. Nevertheless, she studied hard -- her handlers made it clear that was part of her assignment. To her surprise, she found the coursework interesting. She had never developed much respect for the practitioners of that craft when they tried to apply it to her; in the hospitals, she had often entertained herself by breaking into the doctors' offices at night and laughing at the absurdities they placed in her files. But now she realized that they had been hacks -- in the hands of someone qualified, the knowledge she was gaining could be extraordinarily powerful.

Aside from her studies, however, it had initially appeared as if she were allowed to do anything she pleased -- that she had a real life, with real choices. Gradually, painfully, she learned otherwise. With each mistake, she received a warning; when she ignored a warning, she received a punishment. Eventually, she no longer needed either. In reality, as she now understood, her life was strictly limited, precisely defined. Genuine human interactions were prohibited; only a superficial imitation was allowed. Within Section Two, there had at least been the camaraderie of a shared secret; outside, she was a shadow of a person, barely existing at all.

* * *

George observed Madeline carefully as she entered his office for her annual interview. She smiled for a split second and took a seat, folding her hands neatly in her lap. He set aside her file and smiled in return.

"Madeline, it's so good to see you again. How is Paris?"

"Very nice." Her tone and expression were pleasant -- even warm -- but he detected an underlying wariness.

"You look well. Student life -- or is it French food -- must be agreeing with you." As was French fashion, he noticed, but he refrained from mentioning that fact.

"Thank you."

Again, she gave him only the most minimal, unrevealing response. He had hoped that she would respond more conversationally, as the other operatives did -- their small talk was often much more informative about the state of their assignments than the actual debriefs. But she refused to yield anything. Although disappointing for his present purposes, it did demonstrate an admirable caution on her part. It was yet another sign that he had selected her wisely.

He sighed and reached for her file again. "It's time to begin the next stage of your mission."

She nodded gravely.

George opened the folder, pulled out a photo, and handed it to her. He watched as she examined it and waited for her to look up. Interesting. The young woman's mask had finally slipped -- she looked alert, almost eager.

"Dr. Ardem Ohanian. A professor of psychology at your university. He's the leading expert in Europe on the subject of hypnotherapy. Your assignment is to get to know the good doctor. Get close to him, work with him, and learn everything you can about his techniques and activities."

"For any particular purpose?"

"That _is_ the purpose. Just find out all you can about his work, and report what you learn back to us." He smiled benignly. "You see, we at the Agency are interested in a wide range of academic research -- this is just one of the many fields that we follow."

For an instant, her face fell. Then she shifted slightly in her seat and the look passed. Had George not spent so many years reading people he would have missed the reaction entirely.

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. If he interpreted her expression correctly, she was actually disappointed that her mission wasn't more substantive. Most operatives would find the news a great relief -- a nice, safe research mission tended to have a positive effect on one's life expectancy. But then again, this was someone who had once lived much more dangerously. Perhaps she was simply growing bored. Well, that would be remedied soon enough. The professor's research could be called many things, but boring wasn't one of them.

* * *

"Paul," Corinne's voice called, with a strange, echoing sound.

His eyes searched frantically, but everywhere he looked he saw a swirling gray fog. It engulfed him, strangling him with its damp, chilling tendrils, until he began beating it off in panic. A gap opened, revealing dark nothingness -- but then, out of reach, he saw her face, shimmering and blurred, the features not quite visible.

"Paul," she called again, crying, "why didn't you come home? I miss you. I've been waiting for you."

He reached out, trying to move toward her, but he was paralyzed, as if his feet were encased in cement. He struggled, and then--

With a start, he woke. He was shivering and cold, having kicked off the covers from his bed. He stood up and gathered the sheets and blankets from the floor, trying to force the dream from his mind. But the image lingered, rebuking him.

"Dammit, Corinne, why won't you leave me the hell alone?" he asked aloud. "You're the one who stabbed me in the back, remember?"

Tossing the covers back on the bed, he crawled back under them. But the bone-chilling coldness refused to abate.

_Why didn't she wait for me?_ he asked himself. He had loved her, and she him -- he was so sure of it. He couldn't possibly have misjudged her so badly. And yet, apparently, he had -- while he had suffered paroxysms of guilt merely for buying a drink or two for bar hostesses in Saigon, she had been...had been.... Christ. He couldn't even bear to think about it.

He kicked at the covers in frustration. Enough was enough. He couldn't live like this -- the gnawing uncertainty was slowly killing him. Had she never cared for him at all, had his past been a complete lie? If so, the hell with her. But if not, if there had been some terrible misunderstanding, if she could just admit that she'd been weak, or afraid, or lonely, maybe he could forgive her. And if she really did miss him, really did want him, then not even demons from hell could drag him from her side.

He had always believed in confronting problems head on -- this one would be no different. He would find out if she had ever really loved him -- he would know and then, one way or the other, these dreams would cease. She must be easy to find -- after all, Section One had been following her and providing him with an endless series of damning photos. With some discreet review of their files, he would locate her -- and ask her himself.

* * *

Madeline entered the lecture hall and quickly scanned the audience. Most of the students seemed to be clustered in the middle rows, so she carefully made her way down to the front and found a seat slightly off center. The well-worn wooden chair squeaked loudly when it swiveled -- she gave an apologetic smile to those near her and pulled out her notebook.

Her role was to play the avid, admiring student. To that end, she had spent the last several weeks reading -- and memorizing -- every article Ardem Ohanian had ever written, as well as everything that had ever been written about him. In the world of psychology, he was cutting-edge to the point of being controversial, and his activities spanned much more than academic pursuits. He was somewhat of a political gadfly, constantly flying around the globe for conferences on disarmament and cross-cultural understanding -- but it was his work in prison reform that garnered the most attention. He argued that even hard-core offenders could be rehabilitated with his unique brand of hypnotherapy. So far, only one facility in Belgium had actually allowed him to run a pilot program -- and even then only for non-violent inmates -- but the zero percent recidivism rate had attracted considerable media coverage. With his emphasis on workable cures, he seemed the antithesis of the institutional therapists Madeline had known, who had always seemed content to keep their patients drugged, warehoused, and out of the way.

She looked up as a short, slight man with a shock of curly white hair stepped to the podium. He smiled, almost shyly, pushed up the glasses that had slipped down his nose, and began the class. The shyness disappeared as he spoke, his French colored with an accent from his native Armenia, weaving self-deprecating jokes into his case histories. The students laughed frequently -- a rarity at a university where most of the professors considered themselves too important to bother to make their lectures interesting.

Taking notes, she shifted unconsciously in her seat -- and cringed as the chair let out an ear-piercing squeal. Ohanian halted in mid-sentence, and a sea of heads turned in her direction; she felt herself redden self-consciously and then shrugged in an effort to appear nonchalant. The other students laughed, and their attention returned to the front of the room. Ohanian, however, continued to look at her. He stared in silence, his wide, dark eyes searching her with a look of apparent shock and confusion. After several moments, he shook himself slightly, seemed to recover and moved on. But she noticed that he gave her fleeting looks throughout the rest of the lecture, with an odd, haunted expression.

When the lecture concluded, she joined a group of students waiting in a circle around Ohanian to ask questions. Like many well-known intellectuals, he attracted throngs of fawning followers -- this lecture was no exception. They droned on endlessly in an effort to prove how much they knew -- they had no questions, but instead seemed intent on securing compliments, approval, pats on the head from their hero. One by one, he dismissed them deftly, and eventually turned to Madeline.

"Yes, mademoiselle, you've been waiting a long time."

"I have a question, if you still have the time to answer."

"Of course!" He smiled graciously. "Please, what is it?"

"I've heard that hypnotic regression results in a high number of false recollections. Wouldn't that interfere with the therapeutic process?"

The other students seemed shocked that she would challenge him instead of paying respect; she even noticed one of them roll his eyes. But the doctor chuckled and looked delighted at the question.

"On the contrary. False recollections are at worst immaterial to the outcome, and at best extremely useful."

"But therapy is supposed to concern itself with uncovering the cause of an ailment. False memories can make that process more complicated." She persisted in her challenge, ignoring the stares of the other students.

"But false recollections are as revealing as dreams or inkblot interpretations."

"If the therapist knows they're false." She looked at him steadily.

He threw his head back and laughed, seemingly pleased with her insight. "Very good! Yes, that's the challenge. But that problem can be solved quite easily."

"How?" she inquired politely.

"By deliberately inducing false memories, and observing how the patient reacts to them."

At this, Madeline raised her eyebrows, genuinely surprised by his answer.

He smiled broadly. "But this is a discussion that really requires more time. Why don't you come along to my office? I can lend you some books that I think you'll find very interesting."

As the other students looked on, Ohanian took Madeline by the arm and escorted her out of the lecture hall. She had to stop herself from laughing. It was almost too easy. She had expected to have to do considerably more to stand out from the crowd of students vying for his attention.

While they walked, he began to ask her about herself. His manner was courteous and gentlemanly, and he spoke in a warm tone of voice that suggested a genuine interest in her answers. She told him her cover story, adding a few embellishments to give it some life, as he nodded intently.

When she finished, he was silent. They walked several more steps, and then he stopped and turned to look at her, a questioning look on his face.

"I'm curious about something," he said.

"Yes?"

"Why are you studying in France? There are so many excellent universities in America."

She took several moments to reflect. Her profile had not included an explanation for this question, so she decided to draw upon a version of the truth.

"I felt like an outsider at home. I thought perhaps it would be different somewhere else."

"And is it?"

"No."

He looked at her, and an expression of deep sadness came into his eyes.

"I know what it's like to be an outsider, to be alone," he said thoughtfully. "I was a refugee, you know, many years ago." He sighed, but then seemed to force a false note of cheer back into his voice. "But you're too young to think that way. When we get to my office, I'll make you some tea, and we'll have a nice chat. Hmmm?"

* * *

"He's still having trouble adjusting," Adrian announced as she entered George's office. "I want it taken care of," she said crisply.

George looked up from his work, taken aback to see Adrian arrive unannounced -- and concerned that she was so obviously upset.

"Adrian, dear, you'll have to tell me who 'he' is before I can help you."

"Paul Wolfe." Her voice was biting and her eyes glittered angrily. "He's started looking for his wife."

"Indeed." George raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. He had known this for several days, but had hoped to keep it from Adrian long enough to solve the problem discreetly and quietly. "How do you know?"

"I've had him monitored," she answered sharply. Then, with a tired sigh, she sat and allowed a softer look, more of concern than anger, to wash across her face. "He's even better than I'd hoped, George. He runs his missions like clockwork. We cannot afford to allow him to be distracted by personal issues."

George pondered the dilemma. Allowing Paul Wolfe to delve too deeply into his past did pose a serious danger -- although not for the reason Adrian thought. Frankly, George preferred that the new operative be distracted -- a convenient slip-up might get him killed, and George would be rid of the man -- and the problem he posed -- without risking Adrian's wrath. But Adrian was fixated on Wolfe; for now, George would have to keep her happy. After all, keeping Adrian happy was his primary job description. When he failed, she made life very unpleasant -- but when he succeeded, she offered delightful rewards.

"I think we should let him find her," George suggested. "Throw clues in his direction and then allow him to observe her with other men -- perhaps even mocking that foolish husband that she never loved. Once he sees it in person, that should nail down the lid of the coffin."

Adrian smiled, and George took a deep breath in relief. She was pleased. Very pleased.

"Excellent," she purred. "I knew I could count on you, George. Now, since that's resolved, I know a lovely spot for lunch."

* * *

Paul stalked toward the doors of the locker room, his gym bag clutched tightly in his hand. His muscles were knotted with tension, his mind still reeling from the words he had overheard on his surveillance tape.

"Oh, I have a nice widow's pension," Corinne had said, explaining her new car to one of her boyfriends. "Courtesy of my boring soldier husband."

"Why'd you marry him, anyway?" the man had asked.

Corinne laughed. "I wanted to get away from home. Daddy was always so controlling. With Paul, I got my own house and money, and with him gone all the time, it was like being a single girl anyway."

_The bitch,_ he thought, slamming open the locker room doors and heading inside. Maybe a few rounds on the heavy bag -- without gloves -- would make him feel better. And if that didn't work, maybe a few rounds of something in a bar.

As he neared the corner leading to the dressing room, a high-pitched voice reached him.

"I can't believe I'm not the team leader on this one. I've got more seniority than Wolfe does." It was Richard, a sniveling little ferret of a man who had recently been assigned to one of Paul's missions.

Hearing this, Paul raised his eyebrows and stopped, cocking his head to listen carefully.

"He had plenty of experience before coming here," another voice replied. Charles. Mr. Follow-the-Rules. A decent guy, actually, Paul had decided, but so damned boring. "And it's not seniority, it's skill that counts."

"Oh, stop giving me the party line, Charles. You're such a fucking ass-kisser." Richard paused briefly. "Even so, I can't believe you're just letting it happen."

"What do you mean?"

"Letting Wolfe displace you as the Prince of Wales. I mean, doesn't it bother you?"

"It's a blessing, actually," Charles laughed. "I prefer a lower profile. Less of a target for rivals that way."

"I guess you've got a point there. In fact, the Prince better watch his step, especially if he tries to tell me what to do."

That was enough. Paul didn't care if Richard liked him or not, or even if he was jealous of him. But he had to let the man know that he wouldn't allow team members to step out of line -- not even once, and not even behind his back. If a team member didn't respect him, he might disobey orders; if he disobeyed orders, disaster -- and death -- could ensue.

Paul stepped around the corner and smiled, watching the color drain out of Richard's face. "Interesting conversation," he observed, keeping  
his voice even, but allowing a hint of menace to creep in. "But I'm curious. Just what do you mean by the Prince of Wales?"

Richard sneered. "Adrian's golden boy, next in line for the throne, heir apparent -- whatever you want to call it. You're being promoted ahead of people who've been here longer, just because you're her favorite."

"I'm being promoted ahead of people who've been here longer because my standards are higher." Paul stared at Richard, making sure that he didn't once blink. "If you've got a problem with that, why don't you just go to Adrian and tell her you can't keep up. I'm sure she'll find some nice abeyance assignment for you."

Richard looked uneasy for a few moments, but then a smirk crept across his face. "You think you're such a hotshot, Wolfe. Well, maybe in Vietnam you heard of a little thing called fragging. You know, I've heard rumors that sometimes that even happens here."

In a single, sweeping movement, Paul snatched Richard by the collar and slammed him forcefully against a wall.

"You know, cowardly little shits like you don't scare me one bit. Go ahead and try to kill me. Since I'm such a nice guy, I won't even laugh at you when you fail." Paul then lowered his voice. "But if I catch you doing anything that jeopardizes a mission, puts your team members' lives in danger, or threatens the public, I'll slice your balls off and make you eat them raw." He released his grip and smiled. "That is, if you have any balls."

Richard sputtered but couldn't seem to form any words in reply.

Satisfied, Paul turned to look at Charles. "How are you, Charles?" he asked casually.

A corner of Charles' mouth twitched in amusement. "I'm just enjoying the friendly banter in here. You have a refreshing way of inspiring your team members to do their best."

Paul grinned. "I'll have to give you some pointers sometime."

* * *

When she heard no response to her knock, Madeline slipped the key in the doorknob and pushed the office door open with a slow creak. After several months of studying with Ohanian, she had been given unlimited access to his office and the extensive private library inside. His kindly, Old World demeanor had disguised a stringent academic taskmaster -- the assignments he gave her required that she set almost everything else aside -- other classes, her social life, relaxation, and sometimes even sleep. At first, he had seemed surprised that she was willing to work so hard -- now, he appeared to want to see how far he could push her. Nevertheless, with each completed assignment, he seemed more and more pleased. This time, he had invited her to select any book she chose from his library and critique it. He had phrased the assignment as if it were something easy -- a break from all of her hard work. But she knew it would be anything but -- even her choice of books would be part of a test.

As she reached for the light switch, she heard a noise -- a light gasp, a shuddered intake of breath. Startled, she froze in place. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw Ohanian slumped at his desk -- although shadows obscured his face, he seemed to be crying.

"Are you all right?" She didn't quite believe what she was seeing.

As he looked up at her, a pained expression twisting his face, she saw that he was holding a framed photo in his hand.

"It's her birthday today," he said wistfully.

When she frowned in confusion, he handed her the photo. She looked down and furrowed her brows to try to make out the image in the dim light. But the shadows were clearly playing tricks on her eyes -- the photo seemed to be of herself. Impossible.

She walked back to the light switch and flipped it on. Looking down again, she stared in disbelief. It _was_ her -- or no, not quite. When she looked more carefully, she noticed the difference in hairstyle and clothing, a variation in the shape of the jaw, a slightly shorter face.

"Who _is_ this?"

"Anna. My daughter."

She blinked in surprise, not knowing what to say.

"She's dead," he said softly, his face contorting with the effort to restrain his tears.

"I'm so sorry. I had no idea." She flushed, feeling ashamed to have intruded on the man's private grief so abruptly.

"Nine years ago, a car crash." He looked up at her, and a look of uncontrollable despair passed through his eyes. "She was murdered, you know."

"How do you know--" Madeline murmured.

"Oh, one has a way of knowing these things," he interrupted, his voice wavering. "It was meant to punish me for my work," he added  
bitterly.

"Punish you?" She was baffled. "I don't understand."

He stood up unsteadily and walked around the desk to face her. He looked into her eyes as tears flowed freely down his face.

"It's almost as if she's come back to life," he whispered, reaching out with his fingertips to stroke her cheek. She flinched involuntarily at his touch.

He stared at her for several long, uncomfortable minutes. Then a strange, new light came into his eyes.

"But there is a difference," he said softly, the tears starting to slow. "She was a sweet girl, and very bright, but she never cared about my work, never understood it. In fact, I shielded her from it." He took a deep breath and frowned in thought. "But you, I think you might understand. You have a thirst for knowledge, just as I do. And I think you might just be strong enough."

"Strong enough?"

"I've been thinking about this for a long time. I'm getting older. I need someone who can carry on when I'm gone, who can complete what I've started." He beamed with the expression of someone who had found a long-sought treasure. "I want you to be that person."

She cleared her throat. Her assignment left her little choice but to agree, although the odd nature of their conversation was beginning to trouble her. "I will," she replied.

A touch of amusement danced in his dark eyes. "Don't you want to know what kind of work it is?"

"Isn't it your research into hypnotherapy? Rehabilitation of criminals?"

"That's the public side of it. But that's just the tip of the iceberg. No, there's much more to it than that." He laughed -- it was still the same laugh that charmed his students, but somehow it now hinted of something sinister.

He walked back to his desk and sat down, gesturing for her to do the same. She sat warily and listened as he began his explanation.

"I am on a quest for understanding of the human mind," he said, his voice gentle and somewhat distant. "No -- more than understanding of -- control over. My research involves the creation and manipulation of mental processes -- memories, thoughts, emotions, perceptions." He paused, his eyes flickering from behind his glasses as he examined her. "And hypnosis is just one method of many. I use chemicals, surgery, electrical stimulation, sensory deprivation, and biofeedback techniques, as well as emotional and physical coercion."

"Physical coercion?" she asked, with dawning horror.

"Some people would call it torture," he replied with a bemused smile. "But those people have a crude outlook."

Torture. He looked at her serenely, as if he had merely described the latest therapeutic technique. But then again, in his view, he had.

She struggled to find her voice. "How can you get away with--"

"I can't -- not here, anyway." He picked up a pen and toyed with it, the silver glinting in the light. "That's why I've developed a relationship with certain Eastern Bloc countries. They provide the research subjects, and in return I help them with certain things they need -- the extraction of information from prisoners, cooperation from dissidents, things like that."

She fought an almost overwhelming urge to leap up and run from the room, concentrating on keeping her expression blank. She focused on the pen, twirling lightly in his hand, unable to look him in the face. She had wanted a real mission -- well, now she had one. Next time, she would be more careful about what she wished for.

"Some of the work is distasteful," Ohanian continued, apparently pleased that she showed no signs of disgust at what he was describing. "But if you are as serious as I am about understanding the key to the human psyche, you'll understand that it's necessary. Eventually, you see, my research -- no, _our_ research," he corrected, flashing his white teeth as he smiled again, "will lead to the development of completely efficient and reliable means of interrogation, and perfect control over unruly elements of the mind. Crimes can be solved, criminal urges eliminated, and criminals rehabilitated instead of punished -- and society will be the better for it."

She looked at him in amazement, realizing that the man actually thought himself a humanitarian. And Section -- George -- had known all along that this was what they were sending her to do, but never told her, never prepared her. With a flare of anger, she wondered if she was recruited because of her resemblance to Ohanian's daughter, the belief that a child-murderer could quickly adjust to torturing people, or both. No wonder Adrian had looked at her with such loathing. They had chosen her to do a loathsome task.

"Do you understand what I'm trying to do?" he asked beseechingly. "And are you willing to help me?"

She forced her emotions deep beneath the surface of her mind and entombed them in a wall of ice, just as she used to do years before in the jails and hospitals.

"Yes," she answered grimly.


	5. Chapter 5

# 1999

Madeline checked her watch and settled back into the chair. To pass the time while waiting, she looked around the room in curiosity. The therapist's office was quite plain, really. If it had truly been hers, instead of borrowed, Madeline would have chosen a more welcoming, luxurious style of décor -- something that would pamper the patients and make them feel the center of her concerned attention, something that would lower their defenses and help them open up -- and something that they would enjoy so much that they would keep making costly appointments week after week. She smiled, a bit surprised at the mercenary nature of her thought.

Her smile vanished as she heard a tap at the door. It was time for the mission to begin.

"Come in," she called, standing up to meet the visitor.

A thin, worried-looking woman stepped inside. When she saw Madeline, a broad smile of recognition warmed her face.

"Hello, Madeline," the woman said, walking toward her.

"Hello, Christine," Madeline replied, equally warmly.

The two women lightly kissed each other's cheeks in greeting. Christine stepped back and looked at Madeline with an expression of surprise.

"Goodness, you look so different!"

Madeline gave her a wry smile. "Older, you mean?"

Christine laughed. "Well, a bit. But that's not what I meant. I don't know -- you have a sort of air about you. Maybe it's the short hair, or the glasses -- they make you look so distinguished!"

"Well, thank you. You look well also."

Madeline took a seat and gestured for Christine to join her. Christine looked at Madeline almost shyly.

"George tells me you're quite high-ranking these days. Number two over at Section One, or something like that?"

"You didn't know?" Madeline was taken aback that the other woman would lack such basic information.

"I've been undercover as Corinne Markali for so long, I don't really know anything about the Sections anymore. I talk to my handlers regularly, meet with George once a year, and that's about it. It was years before I even knew Adrian was gone." Christine gave an embarrassed chuckle.

"Really." Madeline bristled involuntarily at the mention of Adrian's name.

A short and slightly awkward silence ensued. Christine fidgeted, clasping and unclasping her hands, and then gave Madeline a thoughtful look.

"You know, back when we were in training, I always looked up to you, even though you were younger." Christine smiled, almost hesitantly. "I just had a feeling that you were going to be in charge someday. I'm glad you finally are."

Madeline raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Well, number two isn't in charge."

"That's not what George says."

Madeline felt her smile fade as her mood grew colder. George was making entirely too many remarks like that lately. The implications made her truly uncomfortable -- even though she knew that his behavior toward her was a sign that things were falling into place. Her irritation must have showed in her expression, because she noticed Christine begin to stare at her nervously.

She cleared her throat. It was time to get on with what they had come for.

"Did George give you the script for what we're supposed to say today?"

Christine shifted uncomfortably at Madeline's sudden businesslike manner. "Yes. You're posing as my new therapist, and we're going to talk about Nikolai. I assume the conversation is going to be recorded for someone."

"Yes." Madeline reached over to switch on the surveillance equipment. "Are you ready to begin?"

* * *

* * *

# 1978

With a smile and exaggerated sweep of his hand, the maitre d' ushered George and Adrian to the private corner table they always favored. He lit the centerpiece candle expertly, gave a silent bow, and disappeared.

"Madame, monsieur," the sommelier murmured as he approached, presenting their usual selection.

"Merci, Claude," said Adrian, nodding.

George leaned back in his chair and casually watched the ruby liquid fill their glasses. When the man departed, George looked over at Adrian.

"It's been almost a year since Paul Wolfe last showed any interest in seeing what his wife was up to."

Adrian sipped her wine delicately. "Yes, I think that's a good sign."

George's face tightened faintly. "That's not what I meant."

Something in George's tone surprised her -- a barely restrained pique, even resentment.

"What do you mean, George?" she asked soothingly.

"I have a perfectly good operative who's being wasted. I think she ought to be released for other missions. I could certainly use her, given the limited resources you allow me over at Two."

Adrian studied the man sitting across the table from her. His shoulders hunched tensely; his face clouded with a dark shadow. She smiled indulgently, recognizing what the problem was. George was feeling neglected again. Every so often the restrictions she imposed upon him chafed -- but that was easily solved. All he really needed was reassurance that she took his opinion seriously.

She folded her hands together on the table and looked at him with what she hoped would come across as sincere attention. "How do you propose to use her?"

"Have 'Corinne' suffer a tragic accident and put this matter to rest. We can then give Christine a new identity and a new assignment. Something where she actually collects real intel."

"No." She shook her head. "That would be very unwise. The Sections don't work together very often, but what if somehow he came across her in her new identity? It wouldn't be something we could explain away very easily, to say the least."

George shifted in his seat as he considered this, and a frown wrinkled his forehead.

"Yes, I suppose you're right." Although he looked disappointed, Adrian was relieved to see that his expression was no longer resentful. He sighed. "Well, then, let her keep her identity as Corinne, but let's try to use her, for God's sake. In fact, I have something that might be ideal."

This time, Adrian leaned forward with true interest. When he accepted and worked within the discipline she imposed, George could be surprisingly creative.

"There's a young lawyer named Nikolai Markali -- a typical radical, do-gooder type, always on the fringes of subversive groups, but never a member. But he's going places in government and politics -- I can think of any number of terrorist groups that would salivate to have him in their pocket."

"Go on." She smiled at his mixed metaphor, but refrained from commenting.

"I propose we have Christine target him. Start a relationship with him, marry him if possible, and manipulate his career in the right direction. She can encourage him to join one of those groups -- once he's in deep enough, we can then use him to track down and eliminate their leadership."

"Why not simply recruit him and make him an informant?"

"He's not up to it psychologically. I don't think he's capable of deceit. He'd be caught and killed long before he got the kind of access we need."

"Interesting." Adrian sat back, running her finger along the rim of her glass in thought. "So you're suggesting that Christine -- as Corinne -- target this Markali."

"Yes. That way, she could start doing something useful instead of sitting around waiting for Paul to spy on her again, and yet she'd be available for that if needed."

"Don't you think Paul will find it suspicious that his former wife has fallen in with a terrorist sympathizer? It seems a remarkable coincidence that two members of the same family would just happen to wind up on opposite sides of a covert war."

A corner of George's mouth curled up in an ironic smile. "It's a small world. People's paths cross in strange ways."

* * *

With a rhythmic swaying and occasional clatter, the train rolled across the snow-filled countryside. Madeline glanced out the window at the row of dark pines that sped by ceaselessly, allowed her mind to be soothed by their monotony for a few moments, but then returned to her notes. 'Sleep Deprivation Test Group A: median number of days prior to onset of hallucinatory phenomena,' she started to write, when the sound of a throat clearing made her look up.

"Your ticket, please," the conductor asked politely.

Madeline set her notebook down on the empty seat next to her while she reached down to the floor to pull the ticket from her purse. She handed it to him, watched him punch it, and thanked him as he returned the stub.

"You must be a medical student," he said, smiling pleasantly.

She frowned mildly in surprise. "No, I'm a psychologist."

His smile faded. Puzzled, she followed his downward gaze: it led to her notebook, which had fallen open to a page of sketched cranial incisions. She looked back up at him calmly, saying nothing. When he met her eyes, his face grew a pale white against the darkness of his uniform.

"You have a pleasant journey," he said, moving on abruptly.

Brushing his reaction aside, she picked up her notebook and resumed writing. She tried to recover her focus, to forget the man's visible discomfort, but it lingered. She, too, had once felt like that. It hadn't even been that long ago.

She hadn't expected her first exposure to Ohanian's work, three years before, to be so disturbing. If anyone had deserved to undergo Ohanian's brand of physical coercion, it was the suspected serial killer they were called to East Germany to break. The authorities were anxious to hush up the existence of such pathology in their socialist paradise, and were willing to go to any lengths to identify the killer. When Ohanian had explained the spectacularly gruesome nature of the crimes to her, she had almost looked forward to seeing the prisoner suffer. But the reality had been quite different.

***

Upon arrival in the grim-looking police station, a watery-eyed policeman greeted them.

"We've prepared the prisoner according to your instructions," he informed Ohanian.

Ohanian nodded in approval. "Where is he?"

"This way," the policeman grunted, leading them down a cold, musty corridor. After several turns, he stopped at a doorway, withdrew a jangling ring of keys from his pocket, and unlocked the door. Pushing the door open, he sniffed and said, "He's all yours."

Ohanian entered the room first, and Madeline cautiously followed. A strange, acrid smell immersed her, causing her stomach to heave uncontrollably. Clenching her jaw to maintain control, she looked around the room.

It looked like an ordinary, albeit rundown, office. A plain, metal desk and a folding chair sat in the middle of the room, and a row of beaten-looking file cabinets lined the right wall. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows against the peeling beige paint that covered the bare walls. The floors were dusty and looked scuffed with wear.

She saw no one inside. That is, until she looked sharply left. There, a man crouched on the floor. He was naked, facing the middle of the room, with an expression of frenzied despair. Handcuffs bound him by the wrists and ankles to a radiator; he pulled as far away from the radiator as the restraints allowed him, but she could feel the heat even from where she stood.

Realizing that the stench was burning flesh, she felt herself growing lightheaded. She staggered, legs giving way, until she felt Ohanian catch her around the waist.

"Hold on, it's all right," he said, guiding her to the chair.

She rested her head on the desk, fighting off waves of nausea and dizziness. The surface of the desk felt smooth against her cheek, which she found oddly comforting. As the room continued to spin, she heard Ohanian exit and call for the policeman to return.

"Officer! We need this man unchained."

She heard the policeman tramp into the room and the cuffs fall to the floor. With a high-pitched, animal whimper, the prisoner flung himself away from the radiator, thudding into the desk where she sat. She looked up weakly, but he was hidden from her view at the foot of the desk. The officer sauntered back out of the room, a bored expression on his face.

Ohanian looked down at her. "This is never easy. But you'll be able to manage after a few times. Now, stand up and observe."

She watched as he rounded the desk and squatted next to the prisoner. She stood and walked to stand several feet away from them. She forced herself to look at the man -- his matted hair, his desperate eyes, the seared wounds on his flesh. She tried to remind herself that he was a savage, brutal killer -- but all she saw was a trembling shell of a person.

Ohanian spoke to the prisoner gently. "We're going to bring you a mattress to lie down on, and some water to drink. We'll leave you alone to rest tonight. If you cooperate tomorrow morning, we'll give you some medicine to kill the pain. But if you don't, we'll start scraping off the flesh where your wounds are. With a dull knife. And then we'll chain you back to the radiator facing the other way."

The man started sobbing, shaking uncontrollably.

Ohanian stood up and looked over at Madeline. "That's all for now."

As they exited the room and the odor abated, Madeline took a deep, gasping breath. She walked only with considerable effort.

"You did well," Ohanian said cheerfully. "Most people vomit the first time they see something like that. But I knew you would be strong."

She said nothing, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other without losing her balance. The corridor in front of her seemed to elongate to infinity, with a pulsing, tunnel vision effect.

"I expect that he'll confess first thing in the morning," Ohanian continued. "Once we verify that he's the perpetrator, we can begin a course of aversion therapy. I have several ideas I'd like to try out, although with the severity of his hematomania, he'll be quite a challenge."

That was enough. She stopped, unable to go on. Reaching for the wall to steady herself, she turned to look at him.

"Why is this necessary?" she asked, her voice rasping with the effort to speak.

"Why is what necessary? The aversion therapy? My dear, with a case like his, nothing else could possibly be strong enough."

"No. I mean that, in there," she gestured weakly back toward the room they had just exited. "Aren't there humane methods of obtaining confessions?"

"Ah, yes," he laughed, "the Holy Grail of interrogators. A painless, efficient, and completely reliable technique. The trouble is, it doesn't exist."

"But I've heard of such things -- truth serum, lie detector tests...."

"Yes, you've heard them from Hollywood, no doubt," he said sternly.

He paused for several moments, his eyes cutting into hers with razor-like sharpness. She wanted to look away, but couldn't.

"Let's start with the drugs, shall we?" His tone grew slightly mocking. "'Truth serum' -- sodium pentathol and the like -- is a complete misnomer. The drugs that are available merely lower people's inhibitions, much like alcohol. I've seen countless lies told under their influence. Hypnosis -- well, you know quite well how unreliable that can be. As for lie detector tests, they can be fooled with proper training. Besides, they only provide a means to analyze answers -- they can't be used to force people to talk against their will." He shook his head. "No, the old-fashioned way is still the best. Use the other techniques as a supplement, but never rely on them."

She frowned. "But this isn't any better. People confess to all sorts of things under torture just to get the pain to stop. It doesn't make the confessions true."

He gave her a fond smile. "That's only when the interrogator doesn't know what he or she is doing. There are ways you can tell the difference. And that's what I'm going to teach you."

He stepped toward her and placed his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. "I know this is hard. But remember to keep focused on our goal. A society without the need for prisons or executions, where criminal impulses can be completely eliminated -- isn't it worth the suffering of a handful of deviants to achieve that?"

***

The sudden lurch of the train jolted Madeline abruptly back to the present. She shook herself to cast away her memory, but Ohanian's words continued to haunt her. "Remember to keep focused on our goal," he had said. She knew what his goal was -- but what was hers? No one from the Section would tell her. At first, she was certain that at some point she would be instructed to stop the professor, or at least undermine his work -- but with each uneventful visit to her handlers, her hope slowly faded. Worse still were her visits to George. Each year, when she explained to him the techniques perfected by Ohanian's research, he grew more and more enthusiastic. Her annual debriefs were no longer five-minute affairs -- they had grown into full-day sessions.

Now, after three years as Ohanian's assistant, Madeline had become remarkably proficient at her work. Indeed, she was proficient enough that she often handled the 'cases' -- as Ohanian euphemistically called them -- on her own. With his health failing, he disliked travel, and he trusted her enough to bring back the research data he required. And in truth, she no longer needed his assistance. He had indeed turned out to be a master instructor, and she the model student. It was the fear and confusion, she had learned, rather than the physical pain itself, that worked most reliably to break their subjects. As time passed, she found herself resorting to the more brutal tactics less and less -- becoming a subtle, almost sophisticated purveyor of threats.

She had, in a very real sense, become an expert: reliable, efficient, and hardened -- at least during waking hours. But in her dreams, she still heard the hiss of that East German radiator -- and it still made her shudder.

* * *

With a violent, shuddering gasp, Paul wrenched himself out of his nightmare and into the comforting reality of his bedroom. As always, he was shivering -- even though he was dripping with sweat and the heat was running full blast. Pulling the blankets around him to try to warm himself, he took long, slow breaths to stop from hyperventilating as his racing heartbeat slowly dropped back to a normal pace.

Every night this happened. Every night he was surrounded by faceless entities who grasped and clawed at him. Invariably, one of them was Corinne -- the more he tried to put her out of his mind, the more relentlessly she pursued him. In the past, when he had still wondered about her feelings for him, her apparition had been affectionate, although beseeching. But after he had tracked her down, after he had listened in through surveillance equipment to hear her say that Paul had meant nothing to her, the Corinne who appeared in his dreams was angry and violent.

He wondered if perhaps the violence of the dream was his own anger reflected back upon himself. That might perhaps explain why Corinne appeared, angrily accusing him of abandoning her. But there were others, also faceless. The worst was a tall, blond man -- covered in blood -- who clutched at Paul with long, bony fingers and tried to pull him down in a hideous embrace. Whenever the man appeared in a dream -- as was happening more and more frequently -- Paul woke screaming.

The lack of restful sleep had started to affect him physically. On missions, his reactions sometimes slowed. No one -- as of yet -- seemed to have noticed. But it was only a matter of time -- a moment that Paul dreaded. Incapacitation -- including mental incapacitation -- was grounds for cancellation. He dared not confess any weakness, betray any problem.

He had tried to find a way to help himself. In desperation, he had started researching psychological conditions -- nightmares, insomnia, even wartime-induced disorders. He painstakingly gathered journals and magazines and piled them throughout his apartment in precarious stacks. Occasionally, armed with a red felt pen for underlining, he would attempt to read them. But he had no patience for their jargon -- besides, he always managed to convince himself that he had whatever condition he happened to be reading about.

Collecting the journals gave him the illusion that he was doing something. But in the back of his mind, he knew it was a pointless exercise. Identifying the problem would be no help -- he needed a solution, and there didn't seem to be one. He could only hope that time would be a cure -- but time was a luxury that life in Section One did not provide.

* * *

"Hello, Paul," George said smoothly from behind Paul's back.

Paul turned around sharply, caught by surprise by the man's approach. George continually unnerved him that way -- no one else could ever manage to sneak up on him like that.

"I didn't know you were in Section One today, George," Paul said, trying to sound casual. George rarely spent time in the Section -- he was too busy elsewhere performing his duties as Adrian's hatchet-man -- and gigolo, if the rumors were to be believed. Although how any woman could be attracted to such a ham-faced prick was beyond Paul's understanding.

"Just a brief visit." George smiled -- a dangerous, predatorial smile. He then looked Paul up and down, slowly and methodically. "You look a bit tired. Are you sure you're feeling all right?"

Paul felt a twinge deep within his stomach. George was looking at him with an odd, knowing expression. He felt a sheen of cold sweat begin to cover his skin, as a horrible feeling of foreboding settled over him.

_What if George suspects I'm having problems? _

George had never expressed any open animosity toward Paul, nor had the two men had any tangible conflicts. Yet somehow Paul knew, instinctively, that however Adrian might favor him, George would destroy him if he sensed any weakness. So he resolved to show none. "I'm feeling perfect," he answered, jutting out his chin in defiance.

George blinked and stared, his expression blank. Then he narrowed his eyes as the corner of his lip curled up triumphantly. "Good, I'm glad to hear it." The tone of his voice made it clear that he knew Paul was lying. "I'll suggest to Adrian that she increase your mission frequency, since you seem to be able to handle it so well. She'll be pleased to know that she can use you more."


	6. Chapter 6

# 1999

A half hour had passed since Christine arrived for the second 'therapy' session with Madeline, but they had yet to begin their scripted performance. Instead, Madeline had felt compelled to indulge the other woman in tedious small talk and gossip about the Sections.

Such conversation bored her, and she found herself increasingly impatient and distracted. But Christine was a lonely woman, forced to lead a secret life for over twenty years, and she clung desperately to the brief opportunity to speak with someone who understood. It showed in her eyes, which lit up like those of a refugee meeting a long-lost relative. As much as she tried to suppress it, Madeline felt a growing sense of pity.

But they were running late, which made Madeline anxious. When the conversation reached an appropriate lull, she smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid we need to get down to business."

She reached over to initiate the surveillance, but stopped when Christine held up her hand.

"You know, Madeline, before we begin -- I'm curious about something."

"What is it?"

"Why are we moving against Nikolai now?" Christine's brow wrinkled in a deep frown. "I've spent years trying to convince him to join forces with Badenheim. Right now, we're on the brink of success -- why are we killing him before we finally get access to their leadership?"

It was a perceptive question -- but one that couldn't be answered. Madeline took a deep, slow breath as she paused to consider the best response. "We've decided that there's a better way to undermine their leadership," she said calmly.

"So I've spent twenty-one years in this marriage, manipulating him and his career -- all for nothing? It was a total waste?" Christine's tone sharpened in exasperation.

Looking at Christine's resentful expression, Madeline felt a flare of anger that she quickly struggled to douse. She was not accustomed to being questioned, much less challenged -- at Section One, she was simply obeyed. But, clamping down on her irritation, she reminded herself that to Christine, she was still a former colleague, an equal. In this situation it would be better to respond in kind instead of flexing her authority.

She leaned forward with an air of friendly concern. "It wasn't a waste, Christine. It's just that unforeseen things sometimes happen." She spoke softly and gave Christine a sympathetic smile. "And believe me, your hard work _has_ been appreciated."

Christine's anger slowly melted. She sighed and paused for a few moments before she spoke again.

"What's going to happen to me next?" A faint trace of apprehension sounded in her voice.

Madeline kept her expression relaxed and warm. "You're going to go on to another long-term assignment," she answered casually.

"Doing what?" Christine's voice then dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm worried, Madeline," she confessed nervously. "I've been living this life for so long, I'm not sure I'll be able to adjust to another assignment."

The twinge of pity that Madeline had stifled pushed its way back into her consciousness. She shoved the unwelcome emotion down again as quickly and brutally as she could.

"Well, I don't know the details, but I understand that it will be a very simple assignment. You won't be asked to do much at all." Madeline reached over and patted Christine's hand reassuringly. "And we'll help you adjust to the change."

Christine took a deep breath and relaxed. "Good. I look forward to something easy." Then she smiled brightly. "Oh, one last thing."

"Yes?"

"Maybe this is a silly question, but I don't understand why the script today calls for me to talk about Paul Wolfe. Why would whoever you're recording this for care about my cover story?"

"Does it matter?"

"It's just odd. I thought this was all about Nikolai. I mean, Paul Wolfe never even existed, did he? He was just invented for my background."

Madeline tensed inwardly but forced a chuckle. "Well, I just threw it into the script because it seemed like something a patient and a therapist might talk about. We want to be sure this looks realistic, don't we?"

"I see," Christine said, nodding. "You know, you're really quite good at this. No wonder you got promoted."

* * *

* * *

# 1979

"Thank you for coming here with me today." Adrian looked over at Paul, who walked beside her respectfully. "The Jardin du Luxembourg is my favorite place to relax and think -- it's such a vivid reminder of the beauty and goodness in the world that we're trying to protect."

"It really is very beautiful," he agreed, stepping aside briefly to allow a woman with a stroller to pass by.

"And it's nice to get out into the sunlight sometimes," she added, watching his face carefully for his reaction. "Those of us who live in the darkness need that every so often. Otherwise, our hearts might grow dark, too."

He nodded, but she wasn't certain if he truly understood the advice she was trying to give him. His military background made him so deferential to her, as his superior, that at times she couldn't read him. Perhaps she needed to be more direct.

She watched a young boy run to catch a bouncing red ball -- and miss, laughing gleefully as he chased after it -- and then turned back to Paul as he walked with her on the path.

"It's no secret that I see you running the Sections someday. I think it's time I start to tell you some of the things you'll need to know."

He clasped his hands behind his back and looked at her expectantly, his crystal-blue eyes sharpening with curiosity.

"First, it's absolutely essential that you stay focused on our mission. We are truly the last bulwark against the forces of barbarism and violence in the world. Every other agency, every government -- they've all become shortsighted, in one way or another, so that they make convenient little compromises with evil."

Her eyes searched his face, looking to see if he appreciated the seriousness of her point. She saw a polite attentiveness, but nothing more. She stopped walking and grasped him by the arm for emphasis.

"You cannot allow that to happen to the Sections," she said intently. "With the power that we wield, any such compromise would corrupt us irreparably. We would become worse than the people we're fighting." Finally, she saw a flash of understanding in his eyes, and she smiled. "That's what I meant about getting out into the sunlight occasionally."

"I see." He nodded thoughtfully.

She started to walk forward again, and he matched her steady, relaxed pace.

"But there's something else," she continued. "In fact, it's the real reason why I wanted to speak with you. You're going to need some help."

"I thought that's what you were for," he said with a joking laugh.

She smiled. "No, my dear, I mean once I'm gone. You're going to need a lieutenant -- a second-in-command."

"Like George."

"Exactly." She walked several steps in silence, examining the row of statues along the path, before she spoke again. "The job is simply too much for one mortal. You need to find someone to whom you can delegate the tasks that you're less suited for. Otherwise things will be impossible."

"Well, that's sound advice, and I'll be sure to follow it."

She shook her head. He was missing the point. "It's not as simple as that. You need to start looking for that person now."

"Now?" He laughed lightly. "Are you planning to retire soon?"

"No, I think I have a few good years left." She smiled at him in return, but then grew serious again. "Choosing your second is the most important task you can engage in. It can't be done overnight. You're going to have to start studying your colleagues, deciding whether they would make a good match. And then you have to build a relationship with them, learn to work with them -- it can take years to do it properly."

His forehead wrinkled in thought. "And what makes a good match?"

"Two things. First, you have to choose someone who brings you balance, who complements you and makes up for your weaknesses. In my case, for example, I get bored with routines. George, however, thrives on that sort of work."

He nodded, and they continued to walk on.

"Second," she continued, "it must be someone who accepts that _you_ are in control -- who believes in _your_ leadership. Not someone who is trying to overthrow you or who hides things from you."

She stopped again and turned to look deep into his eyes.

"If your second keeps secrets from you, it's the beginning of the end."

* * *

Aside from the copious amounts of salt, the soup was tasteless. But it was hot, and Madeline was freezing, so she dunked her bread into the watery substance and continued eating. At times, she harbored the suspicion that Ohanian's reluctance to travel had less to do with his declining health and more with his wish to avoid Eastern European prison cooking. She looked at her watch, noting the late hour -- at that very moment, back in Paris, he was probably enjoying a nice wine at his favorite restaurant.

Shivering, she dipped her spoon in the bowl, but then stopped in surprise as she heard the door of the drab office squeak open. She looked up to see a man enter holding a steaming plate of food. He was young and slim, unlike the red-faced, vodka-drinking guards she was accustomed to, and he had a warm, intelligent smile.

"I thought you might be hungry for some real food," he said, setting the plate, a knife and a fork down in front of her.

She looked at the plate, and her eyes widened in amazement.

"I didn't know steak was so easy to come by here."

He grinned and pulled up a chair to sit next to her at the desk. "It's not. But I have certain privileges."

Dubious about the quality of the steak, she sliced a piece and tasted it gingerly. "It's delicious. Thank you," she said politely.

He sat quietly for several minutes, watching her eat with what appeared to be great amusement. Then he inched his chair slightly  
closer.

"I'm your boss, you know," he announced with a smirk.

"Really?" Her tone was sarcastic. As much as she appreciated the food, she was exhausted, and she wasn't in the mood for games.

He leaned back in his chair, laughing at her reaction. "Yes, yes, I know you're employed by our good friend the professor. But it's my prisoner you're interviewing tonight, so in a sense, you're also working for me."

"I see," she said, relaxing slightly. "And who are you?"

"Egran Petrosian, at your service."

He held out his hand enthusiastically. She shook it and noticed the restrained power in his grip.

"Pleased to meet you," she replied. "KGB, I take it?"

He nodded pleasantly. "Usually I coordinate these visits with Dr. Ohanian, but he's informed me that you're going to be doing more and more of this work yourself. So I decided it was time I introduced myself."

She returned to her meal but felt him continue to watch her carefully.

"It's a strange line of work you've chosen," he remarked with an odd smile. "Why would someone so young and beautiful do something so...so distasteful?"

She stiffened defensively. "I find it interesting."

"Do you?" He raised his eyebrows, looking intrigued. "Then we have something in common." He placed his elbows on the desk, leaning in close to her. "I think we're going to enjoy working together."

* * *

"We are facing a very grave situation, ladies and gentlemen."

Paul watched as Adrian walked slowly back and forth along the briefing table, her eyes traveling from operative to operative. As her eyes met his, he felt himself being assessed, tested. He straightened his posture and returned her gaze confidently. A faint smile crossed her face in response.

"Our intelligence indicates that the Soviets are less than a year away from completing research on an improved method of processing plastic explosives," Adrian explained, continuing her steady pacing. "This method would enable the production of explosive material that leaves essentially no residue."

Walter, sitting at the far end of the table from Paul, whistled softly under his breath. The group turned to look at him briefly before they returned their attention to Adrian.

"What this means, in practical terms, is that it would be almost completely odorless -- even in large quantities -- and therefore undetectable. Not even the most sensitive bomb-sniffing dogs would catch it."

The operatives stirred in their seats uncomfortably -- all except Lisa, the young woman sitting next to Paul. She stared into space with a sad, vacant look. Paul wondered whether he should elbow her into paying attention, but then decided against it. If she didn't have sense enough to listen to one of Adrian's briefings, she wasn't worth helping out. Let her sink or swim on her own. If Adrian assigned her to his team, he'd make sure she wasn't doing anything critical. And he'd warn Charles and the other team leaders to handle her the same way.

"There is no legitimate military purpose for such a substance," Adrian said somberly. "However, I don't need to tell you its potential for use in acts of terror. In fact, we understand that several groups have already expressed an interest in purchasing it from the Russians."

Adrian walked back up the table toward Paul, continuing her languid, casual pace, but then suddenly stopped -- directly in front of Lisa. Lisa looked up, startled, as Adrian looked down at her silently. Even from his vantage point on the periphery of Adrian's gaze, Paul felt a chill. Lisa turned white, and Adrian, without a word, resumed her pacing.

"This research must be stopped before it proceeds any further. There are two facilities in the Soviet Union conducting this research -- one in Georgia, one in the Ukraine. Our mission is to destroy them. Unfortunately, we face some unusual obstacles in doing so."

"What sort of obstacles?" Charles asked, from his seat next to Walter.

"Our normal allies -- the CIA, MI6 -- don't want the research stopped," Adrian answered, letting a touch of bitterness creep into her voice. "Instead, they want to obtain the data themselves. As a result, we're not going to receive our standard logistical support from them when we go in. That means no supplemental intelligence, no shared satellite data. We'll be utterly on our own. For a mission in the heart of the Soviet Union, that will make things rather dangerous."

Paul bit the inside of his cheek to keep his face from showing his dismay. Without satellite intelligence, dangerous was an understatement. It would be as close as one could get to a suicide mission without being in abeyance.

"For that reason," Adrian continued, "I've planned several practice missions before the real one. We will spend the next several months making certain that our intel and execution are flawless." She stopped pacing, clasped her hands in front of her, and swept her eyes across the room. "We start tomorrow. I want everyone here at 0600 hours for a detailed briefing. Is that understood?"

They nodded their assent grimly.

Adrian turned to Lisa and smiled softly. "Lisa, your concentration seemed a bit off today. I expect it to improve by tomorrow."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I had a personal issue on my mind today. It won't happen again."

Adrian's smile faded. "We're the protectors of the public, my dear. For us, duty takes precedence above all else. Please don't make me remind you again." Her voice was gracious and polite, but glacial in temperature.

"Yes, ma'am." Lisa looked at the floor, and the muscle at the side of her jaw twitched visibly as she clenched her teeth.

With a firm nod to the other operatives, Adrian walked briskly from the room. Lisa sat for several moments, unmoving, then abruptly jumped from her chair and exited.

"Christ, an emotional female," Richard said, making a face. "I suppose she broke a nail this morning," he added sarcastically.

"Lay off," Walter snapped. "You know what day it is."

"No," Paul said, frowning. "What day is it?"

"Her twins' birthday."

Walter looked at Paul as if the statement should have meant something. It didn't. Paul hadn't worked with Lisa before, although he had been vaguely aware of her presence for several years.

"You know, the ones they took away from her," Walter said in a low voice, looking around a bit nervously.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Walter sighed. "When she was recruited a few years back, she was pregnant. With twins. After they were born, Adrian had them, uh, removed. One went to," he shook his head, "well, it doesn't matter where they went."

"Adrian forcibly separated her from her children? And Lisa just accepted it?" Paul asked, incredulous.

"Yeah," Walter answered, looking slightly sick at the thought.

"Well, then, Lisa is weak," Paul scoffed. "If Adrian had done something like that to me, she'd be dead right now. Section be damned. I wouldn't care if they cancelled me or not."

Walter stared at him with an odd, almost pitying expression. "You don't say."

* * *

A bright beam of late afternoon sunlight cut sharply across the small conference table, falling directly in between Madeline and the stern-faced man who was her handler du jour. She sat completely still as he read her report, the pages rustling softly as he turned each one.

He seemed to be in no hurry to finish. The rustling continued, providing an occasional accent to the muffled roar of the traffic outside the window. The ray of light slowly shifted, eventually shining on Madeline and making her drowsy with its heat. Just as she found herself nodding off, the handler lifted his head and spoke.

"The biofeedback research data is particularly detailed. Excellent work."

"Thank you." She straightened, blinking quickly in an effort to regain alertness.

"Any way you can prod the professor into doing more of that sort of thing? What you learn could be quite useful for training operatives to resist interrogation."

"He's a bit reluctant to pursue it for the moment." She paused,  
wondering how much to reveal. "There was an accident not long ago."

"An accident?" The handler raised a bushy eyebrow.

"A cardiac arrest."

"Well, that's to be expected upon occasion, given the nature of the procedures. Was there a fatality?"

"No."

"Then what was the problem?"

"It involved...self-experimentation." She swallowed nervously. "By me."

He gaped in astonishment, the fleshy folds of his face turning ash-white. "What in God's name were you doing?"

"I wanted to test a theory. There weren't any other subjects available at the time, so I tried it myself." She smiled wryly. "It had unexpected results."

The explanation, although accurate in a sense, wasn't entirely honest. In truth, she had turned to the equipment in desperation, hoping that she could train herself to achieve a dreamless sleep, free from the images of pleading prisoners that woke her regularly -- and without the side effects of the sedatives that, as a holdover from her hospital experiences, she still refused to take. It hadn't worked. And unfortunately, Ohanian had been the one to find her unconscious and call an ambulance in a panic. Afterwards, furious, he had declared that research closed forever. But she was sure that with a reasonable passage of time -- and a promise from her to refrain from further experiments -- he could be persuaded to resume it.

The handler continued to stare at her as if she had some dread disease, but finally forced himself to return to the report.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat uncomfortably and flipping to a new page, "I see you've been working closely with a KGB agent named Egran Petrosian."

"That's correct," she confirmed quickly, happy to move onto a new subject. "He's the KGB's liaison to Dr. Ohanian. He arranges all of our visits to the Soviet Union."

"Petrosian is a rising star in the KGB," he continued. "Long-term access to him would be invaluable."

"That shouldn't be a problem. I see him every two to three weeks. Unless he's transferred, I don't see that changing anytime soon."

"Meeting with him to coordinate your work isn't enough," the handler said, setting the report down and giving her a sharp look. "You need to do more. Something to gain influence over him."

She frowned, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Such as?" she asked, finally.

The handler sighed and rolled his eyes in apparent exasperation.

"Oh." She felt her face redden, embarrassed that she had been so slow to catch on. "I see."

"Is that going to be a problem?" he asked, using a tone that suggested it had better not be.

"No, no," Madeline answered hastily, trying to hide her surprise. "I just wasn't certain what you meant. It's not a problem at all."

* * *

"Anything interesting going on with Paul Wolfe these days?" George smiled in greeting as Walter looked up from his work.

Walter set down his wirecutters with a clatter on the metal surface of the table. A look of disgust seeped across his face.

"I want you to find someone else to spy on him," he said bitterly. "I'm tired of doing your dirty work."

George circled slowly around the table. He placed his hand on Walter's shoulder, enjoying the other man's discomfort at the invasion of his personal space.

"Now, Walter," George drawled, "all you have to do is keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn't find certain people. How hard can that be? It's not as if you're hurting anyone."

"That's your opinion." Walter looked at a wall, avoiding George's gaze, his shoulder muscle tensing under George's hand. "The way I see it, I'm helping you take what used to be a decent human being and turn him into a heartless bastard. That goes against everything I believe in."

"Well, you don't really have a choice, now do you?" George removed his hand and stared at Walter, daring him to respond.

Walter stood quietly, a flood of emotions playing across his face. Finally, he looked back at George, his eyes blazing.

"Why is it always me? Following Paul around, picking out which one of Lisa's twins gets to go free -- why the hell do I always get these  
jobs?"

George relaxed. Walter knew he had no options. This little show of anger was, in reality, a form of capitulation.

"Because you're a survivor, Walter. That's the one thing I've noticed about you. Survivors know when to follow orders and when not to, and they know when to keep their mouths shut." He laughed. "Why, you'll probably still be here alive and well long after the rest of us are gone."

"Yeah, well, I just want to survive with my soul intact."

Ah, yes, Walter's precious five percent club. Walter took that so seriously, but George found it amusing. He smiled, deciding to needle the man.

"Pity. Life is so much easier without one."


	7. Chapter 7

# 1999

George took a deep breath of anticipation as he concentrated on the scene unfolding on his computer monitor. Moments ago, he had observed the video feed from Section One as Madeline handed Paul the recording of her latest therapy session with 'Corinne.' Now, alone in the Perch, Paul was about to watch.

Over the past week, George and Madeline had clashed repeatedly over the therapy session scripts. George had inclined toward an aggressive approach, wanting to reinforce all of Paul's old feelings of betrayal -- perhaps even including a reference to that brat child that 'Corinne' had never wanted. Madeline, in contrast, had pressed for more subtlety, arguing that excessive antagonism might destabilize Paul to the point where he was beyond control. For a time, they went in circles, but in the end, George let Madeline have her way. After all, as he reminded himself, the whole point of the exercise was to keep Paul from having a meltdown and taking the entire Section with him.

The lines written for Christine had thus minimized Paul's importance in Corinne's life without being openly cruel -- and had omitted mention of Stephen entirely. But George hoped that they had made the right decision. If, God forbid, Paul started feeling sorry for Corinne, he might do something completely rash, like try to meet with her. George shuddered at the thought. What a mess _that_ would create.

In the Perch, Paul started the recording with a look of nervous apprehension, and George leaned forward for a better view. But just as the playback began, the video feed from Section One cut off, leaving a blank, blue screen. Angry, George tapped his keyboard to switch his view to cameras in other parts of the Section -- Systems; Comm; Michael's office; Madeline's office. As he suspected, they were all working perfectly -- only the surveillance from the Perch was unavailable. George scowled -- he had been watching Paul quite carefully and was certain that Paul hadn't made a move to switch off his own cameras.

Aside from Paul himself, there was only one person in Section One with the codes to disable those cameras: Madeline. Damn her. Now was not the time to be protecting Paul's privacy. He glanced at his telephone, considering whether to call her, but then, watching her type serenely on the video feed from her office, decided against it. There was no point. He could hear her now, in that aggravatingly calm voice, denying responsibility and blaming technical problems. He knew her all too well.

He stood up abruptly and began pacing back and forth, that familiar burning feeling starting to grow within his stomach. It flared more violently than usual as a disturbing question arose in his mind.

_I wonder what else has been happening over there when the surveillance 'goes down'._

Rushing back to his desk, he pushed a buzzer. Within moments, an operative stood in his office.

"I want surveillance equipment installed in Section One as soon as possible."

"But they already have extensive surveillance, sir," the operative replied with a confused frown.

"No," George snapped. "I mean surveillance that's under _my_ control. And I don't want them to know anything about it." He glared at the young man. "How quickly can this be arranged?"

"I'll look into it right away, sir."

* * *

* * *

# 1980

With a slight grunt and one final yank on the rope, Paul pulled himself onto the snow-covered rooftop and then crouched down as low as he could. Tired from his exertions, he breathed in heavy puffs in the chilly night air. Slowly and quietly, he wriggled the backpack with its load of explosives off his back, set it down, and connected the wires of the detonator that rested in one of the pockets. He stepped back and looked at his handiwork -- now, it was live, only requiring a signal at the right frequency to blast a hole through the roof.

The radio crackled in his ear as he heard Charles, leading the second team in Georgia, report in.

"The explosives are in place and the team has returned to the rendezvous point. Ready to detonate on your mark."

"Good," Adrian answered from her monitoring point within Section One. "Team One, report."

"Lisa, Patrick, and I have placed the charges," Paul replied in a low voice. "We're waiting for Richard to check in."

"I'm on my way in," Richard's voice sounded. "I'm clear to my target, one minute ETA."

"Team Two, detonate," Adrian commanded.

Several moments passed. Paul waited, peering over the roof to ensure that there was no activity on the ground below before he began to  
rappel down.

"Detonation successful," Charles announced. "Target destroyed."

Paul gripped the rope in his gloved hands and dangled his right leg over the edge of the roof. He stopped short when he heard a voice over  
his earphone.

"I've got a problem," Richard said breathlessly. "There are extra guards posted where they shouldn't be. There's no way I'm going to make it to the target area."

"You said you were clear less than a minute ago." Paul said, frowning. "What's going on?"

"They came out of nowhere. I've got to wait until they leave. But they don't look like they're in a hurry."

"Stand by for ten minutes and report back," Adrian ordered.

"With all due respect, we can't wait that long," Paul countered. "The explosion in Georgia is going to raise an alarm. Someone's probably calling this place with a warning right now. If we wait too long, we might not take out the target, and I'll certainly lose my team trying to get out."

"But we can't detonate without all of the explosives in place," Adrian explained. "We studied the engineering of the building very carefully."

"If I get inside and go to the floor where the research labs are, we won't need to take out the whole building."

The radio was silent. Paul walked back to where his backpack was sitting and strapped himself in it determinedly. As he crossed the roof to gather up his ropes, he heard the radio burst with static once more.

"You'll never make it out of there," Lisa stated flatly.

"We don't have a choice," Paul said, swinging the ropes to the other side of the building, preparing to rappel midway down and crash through one of the windows. "Team One, head back to the rendezvous point now. In five minutes, send the signal to detonate. If I'm not at the rendezvous point in ten minutes, leave without me."

* * *

The wind whipped the snow into billowing whirlwinds, driving the fine crystals beneath Madeline's tightly wrapped scarf and deep down into the recesses of her collar. Ohanian gripped her arm tightly, his other hand clutching his cane, as they gingerly mounted the steep, ice-thickened steps that led to the staff entrance of the prison.

Arriving at the top without mishap, Madeline reached for the door handle and pulled. The door resisted at first, until she threw her weight backwards, trying to retain her balance even as Ohanian clung heavily to her. It finally opened and they hurried inside. With a grim echo, the door slammed shut behind them.

Unwrapping her scarf and opening her coat, she shook out the snow and stamped her boots on the floor of the frigid vestibule. Her breath curled up in thin trails around her; she rebuttoned the coat, dug her gloved hands into her pockets, and shivered.

The sharp sound of footsteps on the hard floor made her look up.

"Doctor," Petrosian said with a wide grin. "It's truly a pleasure to see you after so many months."

"Thank you, Egran," Ohanian answered, leaning on his cane unsteadily.

"And welcome back to you, too." Petrosian turned to Madeline and kissed her on the cheek, letting his lips linger for several moments. "You know I always look forward to your visits."

She smiled sweetly at him in return.

"Come back to the office where it's warm," he urged, moving toward a door.

Madeline and Ohanian followed in his wake and entered the cramped -- but well heated -- room. Madeline gently helped the elderly man out of his overcoat and into a chair; afterwards, she removed her own coat and gloves and took a seat next to him. Petrosian handed them both steaming cups of tea and then, with an expression like an excited schoolboy, hopped up to sit on the desk.

"And just what is this emergency that required us here so urgently?" Ohanian asked. "We had a terrible time getting here."

"Ah, we have a _very_ interesting situation. A unique opportunity, in fact." Petrosian glanced back and forth from Ohanian to Madeline with a delighted look on his face. "We have a captive from Section One."

"Section One?" Madeline froze, the cup raised halfway to her lips.

Ohanian gave Petrosian a knowing look and then turned to Madeline. "Of course -- you probably haven't heard of Section One before, have  
you?"

"No," she answered, hoping that neither man would notice that the blood had drained from her face.

"Section One is a covert organization created by the Western powers to fight so-called terrorism," Petrosian explained with a sarcastic curl of his lip. "It often meddles in our affairs, even though we're hardly terrorists. This time, some of its operatives destroyed two of our weapons research labs. We managed to capture one of them as he tried to escape."

"That _is_ very interesting. I've never had the opportunity to interrogate a Section operative before," Ohanian said, sitting up straight. A gleam of anticipation began to light his eyes.

"But it's even better than that," Petrosian announced. "He's a known operative."

"What do you mean?" Madeline asked, trying to sound casual.

"We took his fingerprints and actually found a match. It turns out we have a file on him already, courtesy of our friends in Vietnam. I've made copies for each of you. I don't know if it will help with the interrogation, but I thought you might like to see it."

Petrosian handed each of them a thick packet of papers. Clutching the tea in one hand, she took the packet with the other and looked down at the cover. The title was simple -- "Subject: Paul Wolfe."

Paul Wolfe. She was sorry that she had learned his name -- it would have been easier for her to do her duty had he remained anonymous. Knowing his name gave him an identity, made him a person to feel sympathy toward. However, of all the lessons she had learned in her training, one thing was clearest of all: no Section operative could ever be allowed to become a security risk. She would have to set any sympathy aside -- by Section's rules, Paul Wolfe had to die.

* * *

From his position in the corner chair, it was the cut flowers that drew George's attention. A burst of color in a crystal vase, they looked as if they had been plucked from a country garden -- gazing at them, he felt like he had been transported through space and time to a brilliant summer day, complete with chirping birds and bees buzzing for nectar.

The flowers matched his mood: joyous and buoyant. And all, ironically, because of a death. Or at least an impending death. A death that would solve a problem that had loomed over him for years. A death that would close -- and lock -- certain doors forever.

But even sitting half-invisible in the corner, George had to mask his relief. This was, at least officially, a crisis -- and so he made certain to look appropriately concerned. Frowning with just the right look of worry, he shifted his attention from the flowers on the table back to the two women in the center of the room.

Before the desk, Lisa stood at military attention, her long, light brown hair framing her face and accentuating its somber visage. Seated, equally somber, was Adrian -- tense, leaning forward, hands folded and resting on the desk. Her fingers clasped each other so tightly that George could see her knuckles whiten.

"I want to know exactly what you saw." Adrian leveled a piercing gaze directly into Lisa's eyes.

"I saw him run from the building moments before the explosion," Lisa answered in a grim monotone. "He shot a few Russian soldiers on the way out, but he only made it about 500 meters before they had him surrounded."

"And you're certain that he was taken captive, not killed."

"Absolutely. They marched him off and forced him into a car."

Adrian glanced at George and then looked back at Lisa.

"Thank you, Lisa," she said politely, a distant look clouding her eyes. "That will be all."

Lisa nodded curtly and departed.

Adrian turned back to George, her face filled with concern.

"And you think you know where he is?"

"Oh, I'm quite positive." George nodded knowingly. "One of my Section Two operatives checked in with her handlers yesterday. She said she'd received an emergency summons to a prison in the Ukraine."

"Interesting. But how do you know it's not a coincidence?"

"Because it's the operative who's been working with Ardem Ohanian."

A wave of white washed across Adrian's face. "Ohanian? My God," she groaned, lowering her head into her hands. "They're going to sic that monster on him?"

"I wouldn't worry," George said reassuringly. "Madeline will cancel him before he gives up any intel."

In fact, George realized, Madeline was likely to cancel Paul before any interrogation even began, much less before he gave up actual intel. For this, George thanked God, or fate, or whatever supernatural entity might be responsible. He couldn't have asked for a more reliable operative to be on the scene -- she had never failed to carry out an order, no matter how distasteful. George couldn't have arranged a more convenient disposal of Paul if he had spent years trying. Which he had, of course.

Adrian snapped her head back up angrily. "That's exactly what I'm worried about. He won't break under torture, no matter what they do to him. But she might kill him before he has a chance to escape, or before we can get to him."

She leaned back in her chair, narrowing her eyes in thought.

"Is there any way to get word to Madeline? To stop her from canceling him?"

"No." George shook his head. "Once inside the Soviet Union she's completely incommunicado. It's too dangerous to allow our undercover operatives to carry communications equipment."

_There's nothing that can stop this,_ he thought. _No way to contact her, no way to halt the inevitable._ His body began to warm in triumph. _All I have to do now is wait for confirmation._

Adrian grimaced. "Then we have to send in a rescue team immediately."

George almost flinched upon hearing her words. Why couldn't she simply give up on this man? And a rescue mission would be the height of insanity -- it couldn't possibly succeed. Or could it?

George frowned sharply in an effort at discouragement. "Into a high-security prison in the Soviet Union? That's suicide."

She met his eyes and stared at him, unblinking, until he looked away.

"Paul Wolfe is a resource I'm not prepared to lose," she said icily. "I've put far too much time into finding and training him. We'll do whatever it takes."

* * *

The staff residential room Madeline had been given was tiny, but acceptable. She'd certainly stayed in worse. It was clean, warm, and contained the necessities: a bed, desk, lamp, and chair. It even had a closet, where she hung her clothes neatly after the driver brought her suitcase in from the car. After unpacking, she changed into a dress she knew Petrosian was particularly fond of and reapplied her makeup, ready to be called to dinner. And then she waited.

Sitting at the desk, she couldn't avoid looking at it. While she was unpacking and changing, she had pretended it wasn't there, busying herself with other thoughts. But now, with nothing else to do and the desk in front of her otherwise bare, the report claimed her full attention. She stared at the cover, unable to tear her eyes away.

_How do I kill him and make it look like an accident?_ she wondered. _Should I tamper with the settings on the electroshock equipment? Or should I  
slip him some drugs and make it look like a suicide?_

She looked at the report as if it might answer her questions, but it offered no response. Unopened, it would remain mute. Whatever secrets it held were inside. Waiting.

Slowly, reluctantly, half-unconsciously, she reached for the document, spread it open to a random page, and started reading.

_Date: 25-10-1970_

_Interrogator: Phan Van Nahn_

_The prisoner refused to sign the statement condemning American atrocities. We left him tied up overnight as encouragement to cooperate. This morning, he held out his hand as if to accept the pen; just as the pen was offered to him he turned up his hand and flashed his middle finger. Solitary confinement is recommended until he becomes more agreeable._

She turned, again at random, to another page.

_Date: 02-02-1971_

_Interrogator: Phan Van Nahn_

_I mentioned that I knew that he had a wife and son at home. I did not tell him I learned this from another prisoner -- it is better if he thinks the interrogators omniscient. I told him that it was shameful that he could leave his wife and son behind and come here to kill the wives and sons of other men. He responded by saying: "I've never killed anyone's wife. And the only sons I've killed were the sons of bitches who shot at me first."_

_His reaction would suggest that he is unresponsive to this tactic, but I am convinced that his family is his weakness. I recommend further attempts with this method, emphasizing his cowardice in leaving them behind alone._

With a frown, Madeline turned to the beginning of the report and began to read in earnest, absorbing the grisly details. The account was extraordinarily complete, setting forth not only a record of the almost-daily interrogations but also a description of the logic behind every technique employed. The unusual, first-person style rendered what would have been a dry, bureaucratic document strangely gripping. Compelling. And familiar.

Sitting back suddenly, Madeline dropped the report as if it scalded her, recoiling with the force of a horrible realization.

_I_ am _Phan,_ she thought. _This is what I do._

Reading someone else's notes had transformed her into an outsider, someone who could be shocked and disgusted at acts that she herself had performed. The extent of the shock surprised her -- she had thought that she was beyond such reactions, that she could distance herself from anything. But instead, she found herself suffering along with the prisoner -- hating his tormentors, admiring his courage. Incredulous at the thought that he had resisted for seven full years.

_Seven years._ The two words turned over in her mind several times before the significance sank in. When it finally did, she exhaled in startled relief.

This man was no security risk. There was nothing they could do, no conceivable torture they could try, that could possibly make him break. He would die first, she was certain. Which meant one thing.

_I don't have to cancel him. Thank God._

She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, almost dizzy with gratitude at her reprieve. In her career as a Section operative, she had watched many people die -- too many even to remember -- but had not yet been required to perform the act herself. The thought that she might have to start with a colleague had repulsed her. But now, thankfully, it wasn't necessary. Indeed, another possibility had opened. An intriguing, daring possibility.

If Paul Wolfe could only resist for a few days of interrogation -- something she no longer had any doubt he could do -- it would buy her enough time to devise a way to help him escape. Thanks to her privileged position as Ohanian's assistant -- and her special relationship with Petrosian -- she had complete freedom to roam wherever she liked, whenever she wanted. No one would dare challenge her or even wonder what she was doing. Arranging his escape from the prison grounds might even be easy. After that -- well, she had hard currency she could give him, as well as knowledge of officials who were willing to be  
bribed.

She ran through the layout of the building and grounds in her mind, pondering possible escape routes and inventing diversions. As she analyzed each option, she felt her heart begin to race with a burst of adrenaline -- a feeling of excitement that she found surprisingly enjoyable. Gathering intel -- gruesome though the subject matter might be -- had not proven particularly dangerous. So long as no one ever caught her passing information to her handlers, her life was, in fact, quite secure. But helping a Western prisoner escape the Soviet Union -- that was bold, risky, even exhilarating. It was the sort of thing a covert operative _should_ be doing -- the sort of thing she had looked forward to, long ago, when she was first recruited. Her life as  
an undercover operative had become so routine, so cautious, she had almost forgotten what being bold felt like. Now, she remembered -- it felt like being alive.

"Are you ready?"

Madeline caught her breath as she looked up to see Petrosian calmly watching her. Lost in concentration, she hadn't heard him open the door.

"Ready for what?" she asked, trying to shake off her nervousness.

"The doctor wants to start with the prisoner now. A brief appetizer before we stop for dinner," Petrosian answered with a short laugh.

"I see." Madeline stood hastily and followed him from the room. She knew she had to calm down, to appear normal, but her heart was still pounding, her mind distracted.

Once in the corridor, Petrosian slipped his arm though hers and winked. "You know, the appetizer doesn't sound much to my liking, but I can think of a dessert I might enjoy."

* * *

Paul twisted his wrists in frustration, shifting impatiently in his seat. He knew there was no way to slip his hands free from the handcuffs that fastened him to the chair, but the effort gave him something to do, somewhere to place his pent-up energy. His rattling broke the muffled silence of the cold, gray room; his jerks were the only motion.

When he could take the slicing pain in his wrists no more, he began to kick at the desk in front of him, rhythmically and angrily. He had been waiting in the tiny interrogation room -- set up police-station style, with a desk, chairs, and two-way mirror -- for hours, and he was growing increasingly edgy. At first, it had been a welcome diversion from his cell. But as time dragged on, and he was forced to sit still, he started to grow bored. At least in the cell he had been able to pace, and the guards occasionally gave him cigarettes.

_Just get on with it, for God's sake,_ he thought. _Don't keep me waiting here forever._

As if in response to his unspoken words, the door swung open. He blinked in surprise and watched as a very unusual pair walked inside. The first was a frail-looking elderly man, who hunched over a cane as he walked. The second, almost more surprising than the first, was a very young, dark-haired woman, supporting the old man with one hand and clutching a notebook in the other. Both of them wore very fashionable civilian clothes -- the man, a black, tailored suit with a monogrammed handkerchief, diamond-studded cufflinks and an expensive gold wristwatch; the woman, a blue dress similar in design to ones Paul had seen in Paris, a silver necklace, and several rings.

Paul raised his eyebrows. _Well, these aren't exactly your run-of-the-mill Soviet civil servants._

With the young woman's assistance, the man slowly eased into a chair and placed his cane on the floor. She sat down next to him, crossed her legs, and flipped open the notebook. Clicking her pen, she poised her hand above the paper, ready to write; the glint of the metal was what drew Paul's eyes, but then his gaze traveled down, almost unbidden, following the smooth curve of her leg toward the shining black surface of a high-heeled shoe. Clenching his teeth with the effort, he wrenched his eyes back up.

_Hang on now, Paul,_ he told himself. _You don't need that kind of distraction. Keep focused._

The man cleared his throat and smiled gently. "I hope you haven't been too uncomfortable waiting for us, Mr. Wolfe," he said, with a strange accent to his English that Paul couldn't quite place.

_Jesus Christ, they know who I am._

Paul breathed in sharply, wondering how much else they knew. The strategy he had decided upon for dealing with enemy interrogators was to engage in insulting banter to prove his lack of fear. But their knowledge of his identity made him nervous -- it would be too easy to be led into giving something away if he spoke, even about something meaningless. So he sat quietly, looking back and forth at his two visitors.

The man folded his hands in his lap and waited, continuing to smile, the paragon of patience. He watched Paul with a detached but attentive expression. His eyes, glowing darkly from behind his wire-rimmed glasses, seemed to have their own gravitational pull -- Paul felt himself falling into their orbit, helpless to escape. But then with a desperate surge of energy he managed to pull away, shifting his attention back to the young woman. She looked away quickly, avoiding Paul's eyes.

She seemed ill at ease, nervous -- noticing this, Paul smiled to himself, deciding it was probably her first time meeting an enemy prisoner. But God only knew what she was doing as an interrogator's stenographer in the first place -- she was far too beautiful to be in such a hellhole, witnessing the sort of acts that no doubt went on in Russian prisons. No, beautiful wasn't an adequate word. Breathtaking? Closer, but no. Exquisite. That was it. The sort of word used for rare wines, priceless works of art, sublime musical compositions, polished gemstones. She was like all of those things -- something to be coveted,  
appreciated, and savored by a connoisseur. The ugliness of the setting only accentuated the effect of her presence.

"I see you're quite interested in my assistant," the man said dryly, drawing back Paul's attention. "I usually take the first crack at the prisoners, however. But you might have the pleasure of working with her if I get tired." He smiled again. "She's almost as good as I am. Quite ruthless, in her own way."

She was an interrogator herself? He looked back over at her, disgusted, and this time she didn't look away. Instead, he met a pair of cool, dark eyes, watching him confidently. But as he looked at her more carefully, he saw something strange in her expression -- it wasn't clinical, like the old man's, or hostile, like that of other interrogators he had met -- it almost seemed like she was trying to tell him something, to communicate a message. He frowned, unsure how to react.

"Now," said the old man, "let's begin our questions."

* * *

Ohanian swallowed a forkful of chicken and then waved the utensil in the air dismissively.

"He won't break," he announced. "It's pointless even to try."

Turning away from Petrosian, whose conversation had been monopolizing her attention, Madeline set down her knife and fork and looked across the table at Ohanian. She grew concerned, but was not surprised. He had read the same document she had, and the conclusion was obvious.

Petrosian scowled, knocking Madeline's elbow abruptly as he reached for a slice of bread.

"How can you be sure?" he asked. "You only questioned him briefly. We haven't even so much as given him a beating yet." He tore off a piece of the bread and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing loudly. "He'll break," he said smugly, leaning back in his chair. "Americans always do. They're not used to discomfort."

Ignoring Petrosian's statement, Ohanian returned to his meal, his knife and fork making a dull scraping sound against his plate. After a moment, he looked back up, his face full of disdain.

"Do you think I'm an amateur, that I need to waste hours or days before I get a sense of a man's character?" His voice was caustic.

Petrosian stopped chewing and stared at the other man. Ohanian regarded Petrosian with a look of repugnance, the way one might examine a soiled piece of clothing, until Petrosian appeared to shrink visibly under his gaze. Seemingly satisfied, the elderly man's expression then lightened to that of mildly patronizing tolerance.

"The man spent seven years in a POW camp under the most primitive conditions, and never gave up even the slightest piece of information." Ohanian enunciated his words carefully, as if he were explaining himself to a slow-witted child. "There's nothing we can do to him that would make any difference. His reactions when I questioned him this evening only confirmed what I already suspected."

Petrosian made a face, took a long drink of his imported German beer, and set the glass down with a thump.

"Then we should kill him now." He pushed back his chair and stood up from the table. "I'm sorry that I made you go to the trouble of coming here."

Madeline struggled to conceal her apprehension as she watched Petrosian walk to the door, open it, and call out to one of the guards.

"Go dispose of the prisoner from Section One," he ordered sullenly.

Sickened, Madeline looked at the floor.

"Wait, stop!" Ohanian called out, his voice sharp.

Madeline turned toward Ohanian in relieved bewilderment as Petrosian called back the guard.

"I said that he wouldn't break, not that we couldn't use him," Ohanian said, sounding annoyed.

Petrosian returned to his seat. "What do you mean?" he asked, frowning.

Ohanian took another bite of his chicken. He chewed it with relish, and then took yet another, watching Petrosian's growing impatience with  
obvious amusement. Finally, he answered.

"In order to resist torture so effectively, it's likely that he has a very strong ability to dissociate -- to separate different parts of his mind from one another. He might, for example, be able to segregate the part of his mind that feels physical pain from the rest of his mental processes." He glanced over at Madeline pointedly before turning back to Petrosian. "It's a skill that we were trying to develop in our subjects by using biofeedback techniques, until we had to suspend that research."

Petrosian sat still for a few moments as his brows knit faintly. "How is this useful to me? I want intelligence about Section One, not some sort of torture-resistant lab rat."

Ohanian chuckled. "Individuals with highly-developed dissociative abilities tend to be highly suggestible. While he would never give up information during interrogation, we could -- possibly -- plant instructions in his mind that he would follow upon his return to Section One."

Petrosian's face lit up as he grasped Ohanian's point. "Brainwashing, you mean?"

"Such a crude term." Ohanian shook his head disapprovingly. "You make it sound like a bad American movie. But essentially, yes. I believe that with the right combination of pharmaceuticals and hypnotherapy, we might be able to turn him into a sleeper double-agent, without him even knowing it."

The relief Madeline had felt when Ohanian stopped the execution vanished, replaced by a staggering sense of dread. She should have anticipated this, should have known how Ohanian's mind worked. But she hadn't. Now, unprepared, she crossed the threshold into a waking nightmare, where the door to every escape route slammed violently shut.

It was all inevitable. Ohanian would start the process the next morning, and Wolfe would be irredeemably compromised. There would be no time for her to devise a plan or make arrangements; there would be no heroics or daring escape. Instead, she would become the cold executioner, forced to cancel her fellow operative for the good of the Section. It was foolish to have ever hoped otherwise. Perhaps it was even hubris for her to have aspired to a nobler role in life. She drew a deep breath of resignation and grew calm, accepting her destiny.

Next to her, Petrosian took another deep drink of his beer, emptying the glass. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then leaned forward intently. "If we can turn him into a double-agent," he asked Ohanian, a look of excitement filling his eyes, "can't we also brainwash him into telling us everything he knows about Section One?"

"Finally, an intelligent question. I see you're learning." Ohanian smiled mildly in approval. "But the answer is no, at least not in this case." He pursed his lips briefly in thought before continuing. "The perfect candidate for this process would not only have the ability to dissociate, but would also have a weak sense of self -- someone without strong morals or principles, someone easily swayed by others. Such a person could be conditioned to do almost anything, including providing the intelligence you desire. Unfortunately, this particular prisoner lacks that second characteristic. Even with extreme levels of conditioning, he'll resist performing acts that contradict his sense of right and wrong."

"Well then, what _will_ we be able to make him do?"

"Things that on the surface seem innocuous. I can create a whole range of signal behaviors -- all of them perfectly innocent in and of themselves -- that will tell us when and where upcoming missions will take place. All we'll have to do is have someone observe him, and we'll have advance intel on everything. And he won't have the slightest idea what he's doing -- he'll just have an unexplained urge to wear a red shirt, or go get a haircut at a certain time of day, or buy a particular magazine at a bookstore across town."

"This is incredible!" Petrosian exclaimed, slamming his palm on the table in excitement. The water sloshed out of Madeline's glass; grinning apologetically, he began to mop it up with his napkin. "Why, if this works," he laughed, "I'm going to get a big, huge promotion! And for you two, let's just say I'll make sure you're both amply rewarded." He beamed in delight and shook his head. "Professor, you are a genius. But what do we need to do?"

"During the day, we'll punish and interrogate him like any other captive -- perhaps even more severely than usual, given his history. That way, his conscious memories will be of how he resisted and refused to break. When he returns to Section One, it's important that they be convinced he isn't a traitor."

Petrosian nodded seriously.

"But at night, the real training process will take place," Ohanian continued. "That, we'll make sure he has no memory of. When we're done, we'll allow him to 'escape' and make his way back to Section One."

As Madeline listened to Ohanian's last statement, the vague beginnings of an idea seeped through the gloom that held her in its clammy grip. Suddenly energized, she sat up attentively and spoke for the first time during the conversation.

"Professor, you aren't well enough to work both night and day," she said, making sure her voice reflected the proper tone of concern. "I insist that you let me take care of the hypnotherapy sessions by myself so that you can get enough rest. I've watched you enough that I'm certain I can handle it by now."

Ohanian looked both surprised and grateful. He nodded. "Yes, that's probably best. I have been so tired lately. And since I'm quite sure Section One monitors my whereabouts, they'd be suspicious if he didn't remember me performing the daily interrogations." He turned to Petrosian and smiled proudly. "I'm so lucky to have her, you know. When I retire I know my work will be in good hands."

"You're going to be working day _and_ night?" Petrosian looked at Madeline, his disappointment obvious.

Madeline raised her eyebrows knowingly. "You want that promotion, don't you?"

* * *

"Are you sure you don't need him restrained?" The guard looked at Madeline skeptically, his round face full of concern.

"I don't think that's necessary." Madeline shook her head and then smiled politely. "Even if he attacked me, where could he go afterwards? I doubt he's that foolish."

The guard shrugged, unlocked the door to the cell, and pushed it open with a squeal. Madeline thanked him and stepped inside, pausing momentarily as she listened to the solid metal door close soundly and lock behind her.

It had been easy enough to convince the guards to let her see the prisoner -- after all, as she had explained, she needed to assess the man before the next day's interrogation session. But they wouldn't have challenged her even if she had offered no excuse -- the guards were simply too afraid of her to deny a request. She wasn't quite certain where the fear came from -- as someone outside the prison hierarchy, she posed no threat to them. Nor had she sought to frighten them in any way. In truth, she hardly even paid attention to them except for polite greetings and thank yous. Yet they rarely dared to look her in the eye. Maybe it was the nature of her work, or maybe it was her association with Petrosian, a man who terrorized his subordinates. It didn't  
matter. If it meant her actions tonight would escape scrutiny, she was glad for it. Indeed, if inducing fear in others gave her greater freedom, perhaps it was a trait she ought to consider cultivating.

Taking a deep breath, she looked around the room in curiosity. Despite her frequent trips to these institutions, she never visited individual cells -- her time was spent solely in interrogation rooms and staff or medical areas. This cell was more comfortable than she would have expected -- it was small and cramped, but almost civilized. A long metal bench bolted to the wall served as the bed; several feet away were a toilet and sink. The floor was plain cement, the walls an institutional green. It looked...oddly familiar. After a split second of confusion, she smiled wryly, remembering why. The room was a virtual replica of several jail cells she'd had the misfortune of staying in so many years ago. Another lifetime ago.

_Who would have thought I'd become one of the jailers?_ she thought in sad bemusement. _Certainly not me._

Shaking off that thought, she turned her attention to the object of her visit. Paul Wolfe was lying on a beaten-looking mattress atop the bench, covered with the thin blanket issued to all prisoners. At first, his back was to her -- she saw only a shape huddled under the blanket and a few tufts of brown hair poking out. But as she moved farther into the room, he rolled over to look at her, and his eyes -- so shockingly blue -- met hers. She blinked instinctively in self-defense, but it was too late. The power of his gaze -- and the contempt it held -- momentarily stunned her. It seemed as if the floor had weakened and cracked open beneath her, plunging her into the depths of an arctic sea. As she felt the blood color her face and her breathing become shallow, she realized that she would never, ever want to be this man's enemy.

Unfortunately for her, in his mind, she _was_ the enemy. The sooner she remedied that impression, the better.

Regaining her composure, she began to walk toward him, stepping carefully around the cigarette butts ground into the floor. He threw off the blanket and sat up, crossing his arms over his chest and watching her intently. He said nothing, but his body language conveyed a bold arrogance, an almost insulting confidence. Leaning back against the wall, still clad in commando black from his mission, he looked at her as if he were a warlord receiving tribute from a vassal instead of a prisoner being inspected by his captor. His air of casual amusement was disconcerting -- she was accustomed to prisoners being intimidated by her approach, and he was anything but.

When she stopped, less than a foot away from him, he gave a short laugh. "I see they sent in the second string. Well, your boss wasn't able to get anything out of me, so I don't see why you think you can." He then smirked, looking her up and down possessively. "Although you _are_ nicer to look at."

She felt a sharp wave of anger mixed with--well, something else. Something she didn't want to think about at the moment.

_You're lucky I'm your ally,_ she thought, _or I'd wipe that look right off your face._

"I'm not here to interrogate you," she said.

Hearing her speak in flawless English, he narrowed his eyes and looked at her with disgust. "You're an American, aren't you? What the hell are you doing working for them?"

"I don't work for them," she said, keeping her expression grave. "I work for Section Two. And I'm here to help you."

She saw his eyes widen slightly in shock, but he quickly recovered. "Nice try," he hissed. "Now leave me alone. I'd like to get some sleep."

"I'm sorry, but I can't do that. You're either going to let me help you, or I'm going to cancel you."

She watched him calmly, letting this sink in. He no longer looked quite so arrogant. In fact, she could almost see a trace of doubt growing in the back of his eyes.

"Now, I understand that you might not trust me," she continued. "That's to be expected. But you really have very little choice. Once I explain what they have planned for you here, I think you'll agree."

He eyed her warily. She waited patiently, hands clasped in front of her. Finally, he shrugged.

"You're right," he said. "I don't trust you. But say whatever you have to say and get it over with."

They stared at each other for several moments.

"May I sit down?" she asked.

He moved to one end of the bench, gesturing for her to sit next to him.

She sat, fought back her nervousness, and began. "My name is Madeline. I've been on an undercover assignment for Section Two for the past seven years...."

* * *

For over an hour, Paul sat quietly and listened to the woman who claimed to be an undercover Section Two operative. As she recounted her story, he grew increasingly mesmerized -- not just by the recitation of the details of her mission, which made for a spellbinding tale in itself, but also by the manner in which she told it. Her voice -- a smooth blend of sensuality and logical precision -- unsettled him even as it drew him in; once captured, he found himself sinking into the shimmering pools of intensity that were her eyes. His initial suspicion was overcome by fascination, and then, when she began to tell him what the KGB planned to do with him, by apprehension.

When she was done, he looked at her in astonished silence. Drugs. Hypnosis. Mind control. The matter-of-fact dryness of her description only heightened the science-fiction surrealism of the scenario.

"Will this process work?" he asked, finally finding his voice.

"It's never been tried on a fully resistant subject before. We don't know what the outcome might be."

"So it might fail."

"If Ohanian thinks it's failed, he'll have you killed. Of course, if I think it's worked, I'll kill you myself."

Her tone was soft and unthreatening, but as she looked at him evenly with those dark, brown eyes, he knew, instinctively, that she was telling the truth: she could -- and would -- kill him, if it came to that. The realization gave him an abrupt chill.

"I don't think I like those options," he said with a quick, sarcastic laugh.

"Which is why you'll do what I say." She sharpened her voice with more than a hint of authority.

"Which is?"

"To pretend that the process has succeeded," she answered calmly.

He raised his eyebrows in worried surprise. He had expected a straightforward escape plan -- this sounded overly complicated, excessively risky.

"You've got to be kidding. Why can't you just help me get out of this place?"

"Security here is extremely high. It would take several days to set up a feasible escape plan -- and even then the risk is extreme. And in the meantime, you'd have to pretend to undergo the procedure anyway. Why not just finish it out and be allowed to escape without any interference? It's considerably safer that way."

"Not if I really get brainwashed somehow," he protested.

"I won't let that happen."

They held a long, uncomfortable look. His real question -- whether he could place his trust in her -- remained unspoken, but he could see from her expression that she recognized his doubt. Finally, she sighed and broke the silence.

"It's really very straightforward," she explained. "First, I'll substitute the drugs with something harmless. Then, when I visit each night to do your 'hypnotherapy', I'll give you instructions on how you should behave the following day to convince Ohanian that the process is working. Once he's convinced that the procedure has been successfully completed, you'll be set free."

She smiled briefly, reassuringly, but then hesitated as a faint cloud of concern shadowed her face.

"The only difficult part will be the interrogations themselves," she continued, shifting slightly on the bench and glancing away with a frown. "Ohanian plans on making them realistic. He'll take you to the brink of death -- but stop just short." Leaning forward, she looked back at him sharply, her eyes cutting deep into his. "You're going to have to be strong. If you can't, then I can't help you."

"Oh, I can be strong, alright," he replied. "But what if your mad professor misjudges where that brink is?"

"He won't." She spoke with cold, unhesitating confidence. "He never does."

He inhaled deeply and frowned. Her plan was actually starting to make sense. But there was one problem.

"What about when the KGB figures out that I'm not sending them intel? Won't you fall under suspicion? It could blow your cover."

She smiled serenely. "There's a way around that."

"How?"

"When you return to Section One, tell them to allow you to give up minor, non-critical intel for several weeks. Then taper off. It's an experimental procedure -- Ohanian will assume that the effects simply wore off. It happens with our subjects all the time. He -- and the KGB -- will be pleased with the partial success, and no one will be the wiser."

He laughed. "You seem to have all of this figured out," he said admiringly.

"Yes," she said, arching an eyebrow with a slight look of pride. "I have."

He closed his eyes in thought. Did he trust this woman? It was possible, of course, that she had told him an elaborate lie in an effort to dissuade him from trying to escape. But no, she knew too much about the Sections -- she knew all about Adrian and George, and even spoke in Section jargon. Her story simply rang true -- not just in the details, but in the way she told it.

Ultimately, however, it was something more than just a compelling story that persuaded him -- it was her manner, the way she looked at him. It felt familiar, as if they had known each other all their lives -- or, perhaps more accurately, as if they had spent their lives preparing to meet each other. He knew his reaction wasn't logical, but he couldn't shake it. He trusted her -- deep, in his gut -- in a way that he hadn't trusted anyone since he joined the Section. He trusted her enough to put his life in her hands and follow her advice -- wherever it might lead.

He opened his eyes and sighed. "Well, as crazy as this story is, you're right. I don't really have many choices. I guess we'll work together." He grinned, trying to cover up his trepidation about her plan.

She smiled warmly and held out her hand to him. "Then I guess we have a deal."

He shook her hand and then released it slowly. As he did so, and the delicate softness of her palm and fingers brushed across his, he found himself growing acutely aware of their physical closeness -- of the sound of her breathing, a scent of perfume.

She stood up quickly, looking a little disconcerted.

"The process will begin tomorrow morning," she announced, her manner suddenly cold. "You'll be tortured and interrogated all day. I cannot interfere. At the end of the day, you'll be given food that is supposed to be laced with the drug. I'll make sure that it isn't. I'll visit you again tomorrow night to let you know how you should act the next day."

With that, she turned and walked to the door, knocked to summon the guard, and then exited the room.


	8. Chapter 8

# 1999

Madeline watched Paul's back as he stalked from her office, furious. Moments before, she had made one final, desperate attempt to dissuade him from the Markali mission, to persuade him to back away from the crumbling cliff's edge that they all stood on. But her personal plea -- and then her invocation of Section's best interests, of keeping the machine running, as she had put it -- had only made him defensive and more determined. Now, she realized, there was no choice but to proceed -- and from this point on, regretfully, there would be no going back.

As she stared blankly at her office door, her mood shifted from anxiety to anger -- anger that had no outlet and no means of dissipation. The situation that they found themselves in was, ultimately, Adrian's fault -- a fact that caused Madeline a seething, unrelieved rage. While George, too, bore responsibility, Madeline had never been able to hate him for it. George, she knew, reacted to circumstance -- and although she wouldn't forgive it, she did understand it. This rendered him no less an enemy -- and certainly no less dangerous -- but it made it pointless to hate him, like hating a cobra for its venom.

Adrian, on the other hand, attracted the full focus of Madeline's wrath. But now, there was no way to express her anger -- she had already taken her vengeance against the woman. Twice, in fact.

The first time, everything had been carefully planned and meticulously executed. It had taken years to achieve -- time spent cultivating resentment among the ranks, planting evidence, encouraging betrayals. Undermined, set up, and then ousted from command in disgrace -- Adrian had been stripped of everything she cared about, including her reputation. Permitting her to live afterwards was part of the punishment -- she was sentenced to a life of humiliating powerlessness as a constant reminder of her sins.

The victory had been total -- and yet somehow unsatisfying. For years, Madeline had been unsure why. Perhaps it was because of the almost passive role she had played, setting events in motion and then watching from a distance. Or perhaps it was because she had been merely one of several people in a complex, uneasy alliance. The battle hadn't been truly personal, the success not truly hers.

The second time, things were different.

Of course, she hadn't expected that there would be a second time. That had come about quite by accident, thanks to Adrian's ill-fated attempt to destroy Section One. When, in the aftermath, Paul had instructed Madeline to take care of Adrian personally, she had at first been petrified. The thought of confronting and killing the only person who had ever truly terrified her revived all of her past nightmares, every old fear. But then an idea had seized her, a thought so irresistible that she became obsessed with carrying it out. It was a punishment so fitting, so perfect, that to describe it as cosmic  
justice was a ludicrous understatement.

Paul hadn't -- and couldn't have -- understood why Madeline had insisted on using Adrian as the test subject for the Gelman process. He had pointed to the risks involved in keeping Adrian on Section premises -- risks that Madeline recognized were considerable. Rationally, she knew her actions were beyond reckless -- and yet she had been unrelenting until Paul, reluctantly, agreed. The triumph she felt while she watched Adrian's face contort in pain and then go blank, as the older woman's mind was tampered with and manipulated, had satisfied a dark, powerful need in her soul. Allowing her decisions to be dictated by her emotions was foolish -- and something that Madeline almost never indulged in -- but that once, taking revenge for a man who didn't even know he needed avenging, it brought her a strange, almost bloodthirsty joy.

Now, her only regret was that she couldn't inflict the same punishment again.

* * *

* * *

# 1980

When the shock came again, Paul's jaw clenched so tightly that he nearly bit his tongue off. As the spark crackled and roared in his ears, every muscle spasmed and trembled, every organ sizzled and threatened to explode.

Released from the current, he closed his eyes and slumped weakly, unable even to hold up his head. Rivulets of perspiration streamed down his face and chest, drenching his shirt and causing him to shiver with cold. Then his head wrenched back up as Ohanian grasped his hair, and his eyes flew open in pain.

"What are the coordinates for Section One?" his tormentor demanded, leaning in so close that Paul could feel the other man's breath on his face.

"Ninety degrees north," Paul gasped, looking up into Ohanian's dark eyes defiantly.

The eyes narrowed, blinked, and then relaxed as the old man laughed and released Paul's hair.

"Very, very amusing," Ohanian chuckled. "But you must have misheard me. I asked for the coordinates for Section One, not Santa Claus' workshop."

Ohanian pressed the button in his hand once more, delivering a shock even more violent than the last. Paul would have screamed in pain, but his muscles were locked in place.

Ohanian started to circle around him, tapping a measured rhythm with his cane. The sound surrounded Paul with its hollow echo -- a steady loop of disembodied raps and footsteps that spiraled around him in dizzying slow-motion, until he felt that he was the one spinning out of control.

Then it stopped, and the room fell into hushed silence.

Paul waited, but there was nothing. Nothing but the heavy pumping of his heart, which grew louder. Faster. Deafening.

Finally, a voice -- from nowhere, from everywhere -- cut through the panicked thumping.

"The coordinates, Mr. Wolfe," it said gently, soothingly. "And all of this will end."

Paul felt the pounding of his pulse start to slow, enticed by the promise the voice held out. How he wanted it to end, even in death. Oblivion would be peaceful, welcoming. It had to be, compared to this.

As his head rolled weakly to one side, he stole a look at the corner of the room. There, Madeline stood attentively, as she had for the past several days, watching calmly as her mentor inflicted ever more brutal punishments on their captive. Her eyes never left Paul's face -- she looked at him steadily, offering him silent support and encouragement. Not wanting to draw Ohanian's attention to her, Paul limited himself to quick, furtive looks -- but each time their eyes met, he felt a burst of inner strength.

Each evening, she visited his cell on the pretense of subjecting him to Ohanian's experiment. Instead, she gave him detailed instructions for his behavior the following day. Ohanian would test him, she explained, by using trigger words -- Paul, in turn, would need to make a gesture or repeat some sort of cryptic phrase. She practiced with him to make sure he responded quickly enough, repeating the process until it became automatic, almost unconscious.

The first evening, she had been all business and departed hurriedly thereafter. But the second evening -- after Ohanian had ordered two guards to pummel him so severely that he began to urinate blood -- she had lingered, sitting and talking to him for hours, trying to lull him to rest with a quiet, musical voice. Incredibly, it had worked -- he had drifted off to a deep sleep, free of his usual nightmares, her presence alone seemingly enough to buffer his pain.

Now, his third day of interrogation, she supported him still. Taking courage from his glance in her direction, he took a deep breath and braced himself as Ohanian pressed the button one more time.

* * *

With each shock inflicted by Ohanian, Madeline flinched inwardly. She had long since learned how to distance herself from the suffering that took place in interrogation rooms, but here, inexplicably, she seemed to have lost that ability entirely. She watched with horror as Paul Wolfe's body convulsed and thrashed, and she grew dizzy and disoriented.

To maintain her balance and keep her knees from buckling, she fixed her focus on Paul's face. Even as he grimaced and shook in pain, he exuded strength and determination -- and periodically, with quick, cautious glances, he sent her messages of reassurance, signaling that he was indeed able to withstand anything. By observing his courage, she bolstered hers, enabling her to remain calm and even to look slightly bored whenever Ohanian turned her way.

As she stood, trying to maintain a mask of disinterest, her mind returned to the details of Paul's captivity, as described in the report that she by now had memorized. The author had noted -- with no small amount of admiration -- that Paul had repeatedly provoked the guards into punishing him, deliberately drawing attention away from weaker, more vulnerable prisoners. The other prisoners had responded to that sacrifice with an intense loyalty, an acknowledgement of his leadership and bravery. As she watched him, now, she began to understand how they felt.

Many years ago, she had concluded that there were no heroes in the Sections -- only pawns. She was starting to reconsider that conclusion.

* * *

Days. It had been days since Paul had been captured. Days since Madeline was summoned to interrogate him. She should have returned by now, duty fulfilled. But she hadn't, and there was no word as to what was happening.

George had prolonged his stay at Section One in Paris, putting off urgent work for Two and Three. Of course, he could call the handlers for news just as easily from Two's headquarters in Brussels, but he felt the need to be present -- as if his departure would be an admission that things had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Protocol for an operative in Madeline's position was clear -- until demonstrated otherwise, assume a captured agent was an intelligence risk, and take any step necessary to eliminate that risk. And Madeline was an operative who had proven to be extremely sensitive to protocol. So why was she still in the Ukraine -- and Paul, presumably, still alive? Not knowing the answer was maddening. Troubling.

However, there was now a backup plan. As he walked through Section One, approaching that backup plan, George smiled.

"It's quite interesting how those soldiers showed up so suddenly," George remarked casually, coming up to Richard from behind.

Richard jumped in surprise. "Wh-what?" he stammered, turning to look at George with a startled, apprehensive stare.

"During the mission in the Ukraine. One minute it was clear, the next it was chock full of guards. Funny, don't you think?"

Richard stared at George blankly, his mouth hanging open in a manner that George thought idiotic. George waited a few moments for the man to respond -- to do anything -- but then lost patience.

"I'm well aware that you lied about the guards in order to avoid having to put yourself in danger," he said sternly.

As Richard finally shook himself into awareness and opened his mouth to speak, George held up his hand.

"Please, spare me the excuses. I'm not going to report you to Adrian."

Richard gaped for several moments, and then frowned. "Then why--"

"I'd like you to do me a small favor," George interrupted.

"Anything," Richard said, his eyes round with fear.

"Good." George studied the other man, satisfied that he was suitably pliant, before he dropped his little bombshell. "By the way, you're going to be leading the team going after Paul," he said placidly.

"No, I'm not," Richard said, shaking his head. "That's Charles' team."

"It's Charles' team, yes," George said, smiling, "but you'll be leading it."

Once again, the muscles of Richard's face loosened in a blank stare. "Huh? Why wouldn't Charles be leading it?"

"He's indisposed."

The blankness gave way to nervous suspicion. "Indisposed?"

"A sudden case of food poisoning. Nothing to be concerned about. But it means he needs to be replaced. And I've convinced Adrian that you're the best person. After all, you're one of Paul's team members -- it'll be helpful to have someone on the rescue team who knows him well."

Richard's skin turned a sickly shade of grey. "But this mission is going to fail -- the odds are almost impossible."

"Ah, but that's the point, Richard. You're going to make sure the mission fails," George said coolly. "Sabotage it, sacrifice the team, get yourself captured, and cancel Paul. When you come back, I'll see to it that you take over his team."

Richard frowned. "But if _I'm_ captured, how do I get back?"

"Offer your services as a double-agent. They'll jump at the chance to have someone inside Section One and send you right back."

"I see." Richard nodded, but then paused. "When I get back, what do I tell Adrian? She's not going to be happy that the mission failed, and she's not going to trust me if I tell her I escaped."

"You let me worry about Adrian," George snapped. "The only person you need to worry about is me."

"Uh, yes sir." Richard looked down at the floor.

"And one more thing," George added, giving Richard a hard look.

"Sir?"

"There's a young woman at the prison where Paul is being interrogated. I'll show you her photo before you leave so you'll be sure to recognize her."

"And?"

"She's an undercover operative for Section Two. If for some reason you're unable to get to Paul, I want you to pass her a message."

"What's the message?"

"That Paul is to be cancelled at all costs. _All_ costs."

* * *

Madeline listened as the door to Paul's cell closed behind her and bolted noisily shut, standing still for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her vision returning, she crossed the room to bend over the bench where he lay outstretched. He was asleep, the exhaustion obvious from the haggard look on his face. For a moment, she hesitated to wake him, watching as he breathed with short, shallow sighs, his eyes rolling under his eyelids as if in a restless dream. But then she touched his shoulder, and his eyes fluttered open.

"I've brought you some painkillers," she said gently.

Slowly, laboriously, he sat up. She sat down next to him, handing him two pills and the flask of water that she had removed from her bag. He swallowed the pills without speaking and gulped down the water. He looked at her, smiled wanly, and said, "Thank you."

"I have some bread and cheese as well," she said, removing the food from her bag. "And chocolate. It might taste a little better than what passes for meals in this place."

She watched as he ate ravenously. He tore rough pieces off the bread and chewed with great concentration; an entire chocolate bar disappeared in three successive bites. When he was finished, he took a deep breath and looked at her. Most of the fatigue had fallen away from his face. Incredible. His sheer physical strength amazed her.

"That's much better," he said, and then grinned.

She smiled in return, and then reached out to brush some breadcrumbs off his chin. But his hand caught hers before she could do so. He gripped her hand tightly as his smile faded into a solemn expression, his eyes full of gratitude and tenderness. With his other hand, he reached out and caressed her cheek. His touch -- light, lingering, and completely unexpected -- seemed to paralyze her, and sent her heart racing.

With a slow inevitability that she had thought could only exist in dreams, he leaned forward, and his lips met hers softly. Closing her eyes, she lost herself in the sensation -- lips, and then tongues, delicately touching and exploring. She cupped her free hand around the side of his face, feeling the sharp edge of his jaw move with their kiss, then drew her fingers down his neck to place her hand on his chest. Under her palm, his heartbeat pounded rapidly, its heavy beats keeping time with hers.

As her hand pressed more firmly against him, he pulled back. Breathless, she opened her eyes -- and waited, as if in a trance. She was unable to speak, even if there had been words to say, unable to move, even if there had been anywhere to go. She could only look at him, hoping he could read in her silent gaze the invitation that beckoned there.

Without a word, but with a flash of understanding in his eyes, he reached to trace a line with his finger down her neck, along her collarbone, and then back up with excruciating slowness. Up and down, almost too faint to feel, his fingertip brushed and then circled -- its contact was barely a touch at all, and yet it conveyed everything. Desire. Delight. Desperation. A desperation so painful it was crippling, full of loneliness, fear, and isolation. A desperation much like her own. From a man who led a life like her own.

How many years had it been since she had met anyone, a single human being, who was neither a target nor a judge, whom she neither had to deceive nor fear? How many years had it been since she had met someone with whom she could be herself, if such a person still existed? It had been so many that now, faced with such a person, her relief was so intense as to be almost crushing, almost impossible to bear.

He lifted his finger from her neck, his expression sharpening with a mixture of appetite and determination, and moved his hands to undo her blouse. Button by button, he pulled it open and then eased it off her shoulders, letting the silk graze her skin as it fell gently backwards. As his hands and lips began to explore her torso and tease her bare skin, she felt an overwhelming desire to clasp him to her, to hold him with all her strength. But with his injuries, she didn't dare. Instead, she forced herself to remain passive, to let him take what he needed from her. She closed her eyes with the effort, allowing herself only the small privilege of stroking his hair.

With a few tugs and quick motions, he disrobed her -- the clothes unfastened, unzipped and pulled away, rustling softly. And then she felt nothing. Opening her eyes in surprise, she looked for him. He stood next to the pile of clothes on the floor, watching her silently. She was on display, and the open appreciation reflected in his face made her catch her breath. Instinctively, only half-aware of her own actions, she leaned back on her hands, threw her head back slightly, ran her tongue along her upper lip, and flexed and turned her body for his enjoyment. And for hers, in turn. She enjoyed his reaction, enjoyed knowing she had caused it, enjoyed the release she felt in surrendering to her own sensuality. Observing her movements, his lips twitched and  
his eyes narrowed; then, he smiled, like a thief discovering an unguarded diamond, and began to remove his own clothing. As she watched in anticipation, he threw them aside and returned to her, panting.

The air in the room was chilly, but he leaned across her and covered her with the moist heat of his mouth. Guiding her down onto the bench, he took possession of her body with his hands, his lips, his tongue, and his eyes -- she felt his gaze stroke her with a tangible, melting warmth. She began to breathe, deeply and rhythmically, pressing herself upwards against him, wishing he would place his full weight on top of her. Instead, he held himself up, biceps flexed, as he moved his lips from neck, to chest, to stomach, and then below.

Although she tried to remain quiet, a small groan escaped as she felt his tongue slide back and forth and then turn in languid circles. He drew his fingers, light as feathers, up and down her inner thighs until she shuddered, then he stroked and spread her growing wetness. She released a slightly louder groan as she edged closer and closer to the precipice -- finally, she stopped him, lifting up his head.

"Please," she whispered, "not yet."

He smiled briefly and then ducked down to kiss her stomach, working his way back up again, plucking at her nerves with the tantalizing touch of his lips, teeth and tongue. She arched her back and sighed as he lavished her with attention; her breathing became irregular, ragged. Finally, he lowered the length of his body against hers, his skin smooth to the touch, and breathed her name faintly in her ear. He was warm, heavy, enveloping -- a presence that both controlled her and set her free, that restricted her movements and yet incited her into uncontrollable motion.

When he entered her, she began to feel a desperate, clawing hunger that she couldn't quite identify. It was more than just a physical need -- it burned so deeply that she couldn't explain, even to herself, what she felt. Gasping for air, she placed her hands on his shoulders and searched the ocean-blue depths of his eyes, hoping to find an answer there. As he rocked back and forth inside her, every defense, every emotional barrier she had constructed to hide behind, fell away, until her very soul was open before him. At that moment, with only a single word or look, he could have completely destroyed her -- but didn't. Instead, he gazed at her with such tenderness that she plunged into a place of infinite, immeasurable bliss.

She wasn't sure how long he made love to her. When she climaxed, she wasn't even sure of who or where she was anymore. Afterwards, to her surprise, she found him still watching her, his face full of emotion.

"I love you, Madeline," he said softly.

She returned his gaze and then, to her own profound shock, found herself speaking the words that she had never uttered to any person before. "I love you, Paul."

She trembled as she voiced her feelings, terrified at how emotionally exposed she was. Apparently thinking she was cold, he held her more tightly, and rested his head on her shoulder, kissing her neck.

_My God,_ she thought, _I really do love him. What do I do now?_

* * *

Paul took long, slow breaths, enthralled with Madeline's scent as he pressed his face into her neck and hair. Lying atop her, he pulled the thin blanket up to cover them and held her close to share his warmth.

Never before had he experienced anything quite like the encounter they had just had -- after so many years in the Section, he hadn't thought he could be moved to such emotion. What had started as a simple clasping of hands -- meant as a gesture of thanks for her kindness to him -- had pulled him swiftly into an irresistible current of passion.

Everything about her had captivated him -- her sleek skin, her quiet sighs of pleasure, the subtle sensuousness in the way she moved, her faint, enigmatic smile. And then, toward the end, she had opened those unfathomably dark eyes, searing him with a look of raw desire and absolute devotion like nothing he had ever seen. It shocked him, tore at him, and seized at his heart until he thought he would stop breathing.

And yet he sensed that the woman in his embrace had been holding something back, that there were depths and levels that he hadn't yet reached. He had ignited a spark, perhaps even a flame, but suspected that it could be stoked into a roaring inferno. Infernos, of course, were dangerous, all-consuming things -- they were, after all, supposed to be the central feature of hell. But he no longer cared. He would invite his own destruction, his own immolation at her hands -- and he would welcome the consequences.

* * *

"I'm beginning to worry about you," Ohanian said, studying Madeline from across the breakfast table.

Madeline looked up in mild surprise. "What do you mean?"

"You seem distracted, worried about something."

"Not at all."

He observed her silently for a few more moments as she returned to her meal.

"You're not falling in love with him, are you?" he asked in a chiding voice.

She froze, her knife and fork in midair, as she attempted to gain control of her thoughts, which had suddenly scattered in all directions.

"That's the worst thing you could do, you know," he continued.

He took off his glasses, folded the thin, gold frames carefully, and set them down next to his plate. He then leaned forward, and she felt his focus sharpen, pinning her in place as he examined every nuance of her demeanor.

"What makes you think...." she started, her voice faltering.

Ohanian smiled indulgently. "Come now, I may be an old man, but I'm not blind. I know what's going on between you two. But do you love him?"

She set down her fork and knife and sat back in her chair, staring at him, completely unsure how to answer. How could he know, and why did he seem so...understanding about the situation?

While she sat, speechless, he reached across the table and clasped her hand, and his face filled with concern.

"I've seen many men like Egran, my dear. Ambitious. Ruthless. Power-hungry. A man like that could do many things to help you, to take care of you. But he could also hurt you if you were foolish enough to fall in love with him."

She nearly laughed aloud in relief, finally realizing what Ohanian was talking about. Giving him a broad smile, she squeezed his hand in return.

"I'm not that foolish."

"Good," he nodded gravely. "Use him if you like, but you deserve better than a budding despot."

* * *

Time passed for Paul in sharply divided extremes. Days brought stoic suffering; nights unleashed shared ecstasy. He endured the first by anticipating the second, and the pleasure of the latter seemed to feed off the former.

Each time Madeline visited him, he succeeded in coaxing more and more from her -- tonight, he believed he had finally achieved his goal. With a savage gleam in her eyes, she had clutched and clawed at him hungrily, demandingly, nearly overwhelming him with her onslaught until, calling on the same primitive need, he met -- and matched -- her ferocity.

Now, he knew what the inferno felt like. All rational thought -- even his sense of separate self -- had been reduced to smoldering cinders in its path. It raged in him still, as he embraced its blistering heat.

Still, he was human, and his body needed rest. Sighing, he nuzzled against the curve of her neck, her skin still damp with sweat, as he ran a hand through the soft curls of her hair. In response, she moved and pressed against him, fingers lightly stroking his back. He was exhausted, satiated, and yet still entranced by her inner mystery.

Propping himself up on his elbow, he examined her. "Tell me about yourself," he said teasingly.

"What do you mean?" The corner of her mouth turned up in bemusement; an eyebrow twitched.

"You said you read my file, so you know my life story. Now I want to hear yours." He chuckled. "Somehow I expect it's an unusual one."

Even as he leaned closer to kiss her forehead, an intangible distance seemed to appear. She stiffened faintly.

"There's not much to tell."

"Not much to tell? From the mysterious Madeline? I bet you have lots of secrets. Like how you found yourself in the Sections, for  
example."

She said nothing and stared into space. As her expression tightened, he felt a vague sense of panic, of impending loss.

"What's wrong?" he asked, touching her face, hoping the light caress of his fingers would relax her features, restore their life.

"You wouldn't understand. You're a war hero. You were recruited because of your positive qualities. Not like me." Her eyes took on a dull cast, as if she were looking inward and trying to blunt an unspoken pain.

He looked at her thoughtfully. "I see a lot of positive qualities. Intelligence, bravery, creativity, dedication--"

"I'm a murderer, Paul," she interrupted, her voice low but bitter. "A murderer and a criminal. They recruited me because they figured I'd be good at torturing people."

There was a hanging silence, an awful stillness, and then she turned to look at him. The expression in her eyes was smooth, cool, like the surface of a lake in a deep, forgotten cavern -- where there was no wind to ruffle it into waves, no sun to warm its depths; where a traveler, such as himself, would not even dare to guess what swam within its darkness.

Blinking, she sat up abruptly and started to gather her clothes. He watched in shock, powerless to halt the curtain of ice that suddenly started to descend between them.

"Well, then, they recruited the right person for the wrong reason," he said, blindly reaching for something, anything, that might bring her back.

She ignored him and continued to dress.

"Look, Madeline," he continued, his voice desperate, "if you were as bad a person as you're suggesting, you wouldn't be here helping me. You could have just cancelled me, or even let the KGB brainwash me and simply told Section to cancel me when I returned. That would have satisfied your duty without putting yourself at personal risk. But you didn't do that. Instead, you're here. And you'd better believe I'll never forget this."

She turned her head to look back at him, and for a moment, when a shimmering sadness shone in her eyes, he thought she had returned to him. But then her face settled into a cold, blank mask.

"Don't exaggerate," she said dismissively. "You're resourceful. Even without my help you would have found a way to survive this and make it out of here. After all, you didn't get through seven years in that camp without being strong."

"Seven years?" He frowned in confusion. "What seven years?"

Those words, such simple words, somehow accomplished what his pleading had not: her emotional distance seemed to shatter, almost violently, dropping away to reveal a look of complete bewilderment. She stopped dressing and stared at him.

"The seven years you spent in the POW camp in Vietnam." When he didn't react, she frowned. "You know, being tortured, separated from your wife and son."

Now it was his turn to be bewildered. "I don't know what you're talking about. I was captive for fifteen days, not seven years. And I don't have a son."


	9. Chapter 9

# 1999

Walter's lips twitched in concentration as he filed down the edge of the jagged piece of metal. The whir of his equipment was loud enough so that it muffled the sound of Madeline's shoes on the hard floor; standing unobserved, she watched him patiently for several minutes until he looked up.

"Hello Walter," she said pleasantly, smiling as he jumped in surprise upon seeing her. "My physician's sample, please?"

Walter switched off his machinery and casually reached for the bottle. He then stopped, hesitating before giving it to her.

"The phenadryl chloride -- you're really going to use it on her? It'll destroy her mind -- permanently."

Madeline made no response; instead, she waited quietly, hands clasped in front of her, expressionless.

Walter looked at her sharply. "She hasn't done anything wrong," he said, lowering his voice. "She's just been doing her job, the same as the rest of us. This isn't fair."

"Sometimes things are simply necessary. You know that, Walter," she chided.

He gave her a disgusted look and shook his head. "You don't even feel guilty about this, do you?"

He waited for a response, but when one was not forthcoming, he laughed sadly.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," he said. "You stopped having feelings a long time ago. Now, there's nothing left inside but Section."

She took a deep breath, stunned that he would voice his thoughts so freely. She had long known what he thought of her, but, until now, he had never dared to say it to her face. But she knew. To him, not only was she part of that ninety-five percent, that community of lost souls, she was no doubt a charter member. And chief recruiter. She knew it, had grown to accept it -- and, as much as it would mortify him to learn it, had come to welcome it.

Walter, without realizing it, served a useful function. In her mind, he and his five percent club provided a necessary outlet for Section One's more sensitive operatives. Believing that they stood on a moral high ground made them feel better -- and when they felt better, they performed their jobs more effectively. She had no intention of interfering with that. But the idea of a moral high ground was an illusion. How could any of them really know what they would do in her place -- whether they would do better, or, as she suspected, far worse?

It was easy for Walter set himself up as an ethical arbiter, to pass judgment from his comfortable hideaway in munitions. He had the luxury of being able to mock the rules even while he obeyed them -- she, in contrast, had the sad duty of enforcing them. And yet she had refrained from taking offense -- it was natural, she understood, for people to resent authority. If Walter provided a harmless means for them to express that resentment, she was happy to feign ignorance. As long as his condemnation remained unspoken, that is.

Now, however, he had made a direct challenge. Even that she could have endured, had he chosen to confront her about another issue -- some harsh rule she had imposed, some offense she had committed against his precious 'Sugar.' She would simply have smiled and walked off, allowing him to have his victory. But to accuse her of being unfeeling in this case was not simply a complaint fired at her as a hard-hearted second-in-command. It was an accusation aimed at her personally -- one that wounded, that drew blood. He, more than anyone, knew the bitter choices she had faced -- and he was telling her that she had made the  
wrong one. That she would not tolerate. Let him judge her professionally if he liked -- but he would not judge her life.

She straightened her posture and leveled her coldest look at him. He was no more an innocent party here than she was, and she intended to remind him of that.

"I wouldn't cast stones, if I were you." Her voice was low with an intense, controlled fury.

After an excruciating silence, he handed her the bottle and looked away with an ashamed expression. Whether he was ashamed of himself or ashamed of her, she wasn't quite sure.

* * *

* * *

# 1980

Paul watched Madeline's expression shift from confusion to profound shock.

"Fifteen days?" she asked, staring at him wide-eyed.

"Yes, of course. What? My file said seven years?" He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "What else did it say?"

"It doesn't matter." A deep frown creased her forehead. "It was translated from Vietnamese to Russian -- perhaps the names on two files got mixed up in the process."

She returned to the bench and sat down beside him.

"What really happened to you?" she asked softly.

He shrugged. "Well, it was nothing, really. Not compared to seven years, anyway." He gave a dry laugh. "Whoever that happened to must have been one hell of a tough bastard."

"I want to hear about it anyway."

He glanced away and then slowly began to recount his story. He spoke in a monotone and stared into space, trying to distance himself from the pain that threatened to drown him as he described it -- the fifteen days of hell, eased only by the fierce loyalty of his NCO, Willie; the bizarre forced recruitment by Section One upon his rescue; and, finally, the unforgivable betrayal by his wife that destroyed all hope of returning to his old life.

Through it all, Madeline listened silently, taking his hand when his voice choked with emotion. When he finished, he was finally able to look at her -- her eyes had filled with a luminous mixture of affection and sadness. He wanted -- desperately -- to pull her tightly against him, to let her arms surround and comfort him -- but to initiate such a gesture would make him look weak.

Instead, he cleared his throat and tried to sound casual. "So, what did my file say? It sounds like it made me out to be some hero, when in reality I was just an unlucky SOB, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"It's not important," she said, shaking her head.

"Tell me, I want to know," he insisted.

"Why?" She looked sincerely puzzled.

He searched the depths of her eyes, wondering whether he should tell her the truth. Should he confess to the relentless nightmares, the troubling gaps in his memory, the constant fear and depression that plagued him? Disclosing his problem to anyone in the Sections could lead to his cancellation as unfit for duty -- for that reason, he had spent years perfecting its concealment. But then she wasn't just anyone. Far from it.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I want to know because...because sometimes I wonder if I'm losing my mind."

Her look of concern turned sharper, alarmed. "Paul, what do you mean?"

"I keep having nightmares," he explained. "Nightmares where my wife accuses me of abandoning her instead of the other way around; where I'm being tortured in ways that I never experienced during those fifteen days; where I kill a man, and I don't know why." He frowned. "And then, somehow, the memories are wrong."

"Wrong? How?"

"The fifteen days are vivid enough. But other things -- my marriage, the years I spent in the service -- don't seem right. I remember dates and things, but it's almost as if I had them memorized from a book -- I can't recall any actual _experiences_ \-- only dry facts." He gave her a bitter smile. "I'm afraid that maybe some sort of battle-induced trauma is affecting my memory, if maybe I'm starting to have delusions."

He squeezed her hand tightly, swallowing a lump in his throat. He looked away before speaking again, not wanting her to see the moisture well up in his eyes.

"I thought that if you told me what was in my file, maybe miraculously it would be true, I'd remember it, and everything would be all right again." He laughed. "I suppose that was foolish."

She took his chin in her hand and turned his head to face her. "How long has this been happening to you?"

"Ever since I was recruited."

She sat quietly for a few moments as he watched a multitude of emotions flicker across her face. Finally, she frowned. "It _is_ possible you could be repressing genuine memories that only come to the surface in your dreams. But then again the nightmares might be completely symbolic. I'm afraid this isn't an exact science."

"Of course not," he sighed. "But," he said thoughtfully, as an idea slowly crystallized, "you know how to do hypnosis. After all, that's what you're supposed to be doing to me in here." He sat up, growing excited. "Can you put me under? Can you find out what's real and what isn't?"

She shook her head. "It's too dangerous. People imagine all sorts of things under hypnosis. It could make your problem even worse."

"But you've read my file. I haven't. If my recollection under hypnosis matches what you read, then it has to be true, doesn't it?" He allowed a hopeful tone to creep into his voice.

She looked dubious. "Maybe."

"Look, if all I remember is the fifteen days, then at least it's settled." He leaned in closer to her, his eyes pleading with her. "Please, Madeline, it would bring me peace of mind. Nothing else has." His voice dropped to an urgent whisper. "The longer this goes on, the more it might affect my ability to work -- if anyone found out about it, well, God help me."

She closed her eyes and frowned sharply, rubbing her temples as if she were in pain. Finally, she opened her eyes again. "All right," she said reluctantly. "We'll try. But I can't promise you that it's going to work."

* * *

Madeline watched Paul's chest rise and fall, more and more slowly, as he relinquished his hold on consciousness and drifted peacefully into a trance. Ohanian had been right -- Paul was indeed extremely suggestible, responding to her murmured commands almost instantaneously.

Once she was certain that he was deeply relaxed, she began to question him. At first, she chose verifiable topics -- matters of common knowledge, his memories of the past few days. Next, she tested him by asking him for classified information -- Section One's location, the identities of operatives. To her relief, he refused to answer -- again, as Ohanian had predicted, he remained a loyal operative even under hypnosis. Then, finally, with a sense of apprehension that made her pulse quicken, she moved to the matters that troubled him: his marriage, his military service, and his captivity.

The implications of his answers were profoundly disturbing. The recollections brought out by her questions matched the account in his file in every detail, every nuance. As she proceeded, she was forced to a reluctant conclusion: the true version of his history was that described in his file, not that of his conscious memory. The details matched too well for there to be any doubt.

But why was he repressing these memories? Why did he remember his wife, but not his son? Why had he collapsed seven years of torture into fifteen days? The lapses seemed arbitrary, defying her efforts to fit them into a logical pattern. And then, perhaps even more troubling, there was the anomaly -- an event found neither in his conscious memory nor in his file, but terrifyingly vivid in his mind now -- the memory of how he had killed a strange Westerner who was visiting the POW camp. Was it real? A fantasy? How could she even begin to determine the truth?

It baffled her. It baffled her completely. Frustrated, she ran her hands over her face and exhaled sharply. There was no way to resolve her uncertainty. Perhaps she should move on to another topic and then return to these issues later; after a break, an explanation might emerge. For now, she would turn to a safer, non-controversial subject -- his training upon his recruitment to Section One, which he had previously described as a tedious but intensive course in Eastern European languages. Something tedious might do very nicely to buy some time.

She shifted positions on the bench and turned back toward him.

"After your recruitment to Section One, what do you remember next?" She kept her voice low to calm him -- the questions about the POW camp had agitated him excessively, threatening to break the trance state.

"Mmmm," he said softly, "they took me to a different camp."

"Camp?" This was not what she was expecting. "What do you mean?"

"Another prison camp. Me and Willie Kane, my old NCO. Phan was there, too."

"No," she corrected him. "You misheard me. I asked what happened _after_ you joined Section One."

"They took me to a camp. Phan started torturing me again," Paul answered, his voice growing more insistent. "But I don't think it was a real camp -- we were the only ones there."

Madeline felt as if the bottom of her stomach had fallen away, as a sickening feeling of fear began to wash over her.

"How long were you there?" she asked, afraid to hear the answer, yet compelled to ask.

"Fifteen days."

"And what happened after that?"

"They took me to some sort of hospital. They gave me a lot of drugs, and they did what you're doing -- hypnosis, I think. And they showed me a lot of pictures -- pictures of a woman, especially."

"Anyone you know?"

"Well, no. Or yes. I don't know. They kept telling me it was Corinne. It even looked like her a little, but it wasn't her. They kept telling me that what happened wasn't real, and that what wasn't real had happened." He sighed in frustration. "Oh, it hurts my head to think about it. Can we talk about something else?"

"I just have one more question, Paul, and then it'll be over," she said, fighting to control the growing sense of dread that had set every nerve vibrating sharply. "Did they tell you anything about your son, about Stephen?"

He wrinkled his forehead faintly. "They told me he didn't exist -- that I didn't have a son." He paused, caught his breath, and then suddenly, savagely, he burst into tears. "Why did they say that? Why did they want me to forget him?"

As his body started to shudder with deep, wrenching sobs, she reached out and gathered him into her arms, rocked him back and forth, and stroked his hair to soothe him.

"They took my family away from me," he gasped, burying his face into her shoulder. "They took my life away. My God, what have they done to me?"

She winced as his fingers dug into her back -- he seemed to be contorting in pain, worse than when Ohanian had been shocking him with electric currents. He groaned, deep in his throat, with an otherworldly, inhuman sound that echoed off the bare, concrete walls like the wretched lament of a wandering ghost.

Panting for air, he lifted his head to look her in the face and gripped her tightly by the shoulders. He could barely form words; his eyes searched her face frantically. "Help me find my family, Madeline," he begged, nearly choking on his sobs. "They're out there somewhere. Please, help me find them again. Promise me you'll help."

As he looked up at her with an expression of utter despair, of agony and desolation of the cruelest degree, she found it impossible to hold back her own tears. "I promise," she whispered. "I promise I'll find them."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished them back. His faith in her willingness -- in her ability, even -- to help him seemed absolute. If only she had that much faith in herself. But she knew better. She had just made a promise she couldn't possibly keep. That she didn't know how to begin to fulfill.

Giving her a look of hope and gratitude that rent her heart into shreds, he then collapsed back in her arms. She held him until he no longer had the energy to cry, devastated to see the man whose strength she had so admired, who had refused to break no matter what, completely shattered and destroyed. Lost. Reduced to childlike helplessness. And not due to any torment inflicted by Ohanian, but because of her own foolish interference.

The sight of him in this state both appalled and terrified her; when he began to whimper, she could bear it no longer. Blinking back her tears, she brought him back to consciousness, instructing him to forget everything that had just taken place.

He looked around slowly with a disoriented expression.

"I feel like hell. What happened?"

Clenching her stomach to control herself, she wiped all traces of emotion from her face. "The session was inconclusive. I'm sorry."

* * *

Adrian set down the telephone receiver and looked across her desk at George. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to speak.

"We've lost the rescue team in the Ukraine," she sighed. "They started receiving hostile fire, and then communications cut off."

He twisted his mouth tightly, looking as if he were trying to stop himself from saying something he might regret. Unfortunately, she knew all too well what he must be thinking. The least she could do was acknowledge it.

She smiled sadly. "You were right. It was foolish to send them."

He returned her sad look, then reached across the desk to take her hand.

"Adrian, he was a good operative. But it's a dangerous business we're in. Lives are lost every day."

She shook her head, pulled her hand from his, and stood up from her chair. Pacing back and forth, she sighed distractedly.

"George, I think you misunderstand me. It's not about Paul Wolfe, the operative, or even Paul Wolfe, the person. It's about our legacy."

She saw by his faint frown that he didn't understand. She stopped pacing and turned to look him directly in the eyes.

"We've worked so hard to build this place. I want it to mean something, to continue on the way we created it, even after we're gone."

"And why is Wolfe so important for that?" His voice filled with frustration. "He was just a single operative, when we have thousands."

"We need a strong individual to leave this to. I don't want it taken over by some faceless bureaucracy. If that happens, the Sections will be no better than the CIA or MI6 or any of those other impotent organizations, and all of our work will have been for nothing. That's why I went to so much trouble to find the right person -- and insisted that we go to whatever lengths were necessary to recruit him. I wanted to make sure that we had someone who shared our vision -- and who was bold enough to carry it out."

They held a look, and George stood up to walk to where Adrian was standing. He faced her, his expression grave.

"I understand that, Adrian," he said softly. "Do you think I don't care about our legacy, too?"

For once, she was uncertain what he would say next. This was a side of him she hadn't seen in many years, not since the early days, when they had worked hand in hand to build the Sections, when he was truly a partner instead of a subordinate.

He sighed. "You want to hand things over to some sort of superstar -- a hero, one of the best and the brightest. But that's exactly what will destroy this place."

"How so?"

"The best and the brightest tend to have matching egos," he explained. "Paul Wolfe certainly did. Someone like that wouldn't serve the Sections -- he would make the Sections serve him. They would become a tool for his personal ambition. Do you really want that?"

"But--"

"What we need," he continued firmly, "are loyalists. People whose ambition is for the _organization_, not for themselves. Not cowboys or would-be emperors."

She stared at him for several moments, saddened that he could be so mistaken. But that was why she was in charge instead of him -- so skilled at handling the details, he always missed the bigger picture.

"No, George, you're wrong," she said gently. "You see, an emperor, if he becomes a tyrant, can always be toppled. Why, if that happened here, I'd come back myself and see to it. But when the people here care only about the Sections, this organization will start to serve itself. And the day that happens is the day this place becomes a thing of evil."

* * *

Entering her room, Madeline locked the door and leaned back against it, exhausted, confused, and terrified. She covered her face with her hands and stood, breathing. In. Out. In. Out. The slow breaths failed to relax her at all, but she was incapable of concentrating on anything else. Her mind didn't seem to be working -- or rather it was working too fast, the thoughts spinning by so rapidly that she couldn't grasp any of them. But her lungs still seemed to be under her command, so she drew the air in, and pushed it out. She breathed so deeply that she began to grow dizzy -- when the room turned an odd shade of purple and began to tilt, she staggered over to the bed and collapsed, closing her eyes.

Eventually, the room stopped spinning, and her thoughts slowed to a pace that was at least coherent, if not controlled. But that's when the panic began.

She didn't have all of the pieces to the puzzle, but the picture was clear enough -- Section One had tampered with Paul's mind, replacing real memories with false ones. And the real memories were slowly returning. Now only nightmares, it was just a matter of time before they pushed farther into his consciousness. What would happen then, she didn't want to contemplate. Except that she must. By uncovering the truth, she had placed herself in the middle of whatever was happening. And now she had to decide what to do about it.

If only the memories hadn't started to return, if only they hadn't started seeping back, she wouldn't be in this position. Paul would be free of nightmares, strong and invulnerable, and she would remain in happy ignorance. It wouldn't have made what was done to him any less horrible, any less of a crime, but at least neither of them would have to know. But instead, whoever had performed the memory modification process had done a sloppy job, an inexcusable job -- and for that, she silently cursed them.

_I would never have let this happen_, she thought. _If I removed someone's memories, they'd be gone forever._

That thought echoed in her mind slowly, until its reverberation summoned other thoughts, other recollections: memories of her debriefs with George, of the intense curiosity he always showed about the details of Ohanian's research. At the time, she had assumed -- or at least hoped -- that the information she provided was being used to develop countermeasures to Ohanian's techniques. It hadn't occurred to her that the Sections were doing the same kind of work themselves. That she was helping them do so. That, in fact, she was well on her way toward becoming Section's expert in the field -- their very own  
Ohanian. But now it was all too clear, so terribly obvious: her mission wasn't about intel gathering at all -- it was training. Training for what she was to become.

She grew very, very cold. And intensely tired. As she shivered, she noticed the walls and ceiling start to ripple and move. They crept menacingly, inexorably, toward her -- first slow, then gaining speed, then so fast they seemed to blur, collapsing violently inwards. She flinched, expecting to be crushed, but they slammed to a stop, hovering inches away. Trapped, she reached out, needing to feel the barriers of her new prison, hoping they would vanish into the nothingness of the dream she knew she must be having.

Just as she was about to touch the wall, she was plunged into blackness. And instead of rough paint, her fingers met smooth coolness, a satiny padding that surrounded her -- to the sides, above, and below. It cushioned her luxuriously, but engulfed her completely, like a well-appointed casket. Which is what it was.

Panicked, she pushed upwards, shoving desperately, but moved nothing. Her hands searched the interior, seeking a latch, a handle, a crack, any means of escape. But there was nothing but soft padding, frilly ruffles, and silent suffocation.

Then, she heard it. A thump, and then another, in a steady rhythm -- a rhythm of shovels and falling clumps of dirt. She began to beat on the lid above her with her fists; if her lungs could have found any air, she would have cried for help. But the thumps continued, merciless and unrelenting, sealing her in her darkened grave.

Strangely, instead of growing fainter as the dirt piled higher, the sound became louder, harder, faster. Then it grew sharp -- like knocks. With a jerk, she opened her eyes, awakening, and found herself still lying on her bed, the walls safely where they should be -- and the door shaking with someone's pounding.

She jumped from the bed and leapt for the door. Flinging it open, she saw Petrosian, standing outside with a peculiar, perturbed expression.

"What is it?" she asked, grateful that he had pulled her from her nightmare burial, but apprehensive about what he might want. "I was about to go to sleep."

"I need you right away." His voice was low and urgent.

"Oh, Egran, I'm exhausted, really."

"We have another prisoner from Section One," he said gravely.

Her attention captured, she stepped closer to him, eyes wide. "What?"

"It seems they sent in a team to try to rescue our prisoner. Unfortunately for them, they didn't get very far. They're all dead, except for one. But he's in a cell waiting to be interviewed."

"I see. Have you told the professor?"

"No, he's asleep. I didn't want to wake him -- after all, I know how concerned you are about his health." Petrosian's tone seemed oddly sarcastic, as if he were mocking her.

She frowned, faintly puzzled by his attitude, but too concerned about this new complication to dwell on it. What was she going to do with _another_ fellow operative? Was this one more likely to break under interrogation? Thanks to Petrosian's decision not to wake Ohanian, at least she would get to talk to the prisoner alone first.

Snatching a notebook and pen from a nearby table, she stepped out into the hallway.

"All right. I'm ready."

* * *

Madeline walked into the cell slowly, her expression as cold and threatening as she could make it. The best way to assess the security risk posed by the new prisoner would be to engage in a genuine interrogation -- after that, she would have a better idea how to fit this man into her plans. She could only hope that he was as good as Paul at refusing to break. Otherwise...well, she would think about that later. First things first.

The prisoner, a slight, dark-haired man with a black eye and swollen lip from a recent beating, no doubt at the hands of the guards, stood leaning against a wall. To her surprise, he smiled broadly when he saw her and crossed the room to extend his hand in greeting.

"Thank God, it's you!" he exclaimed. "George showed me your picture so I would be able to recognize you."

Confused, she shook his hand weakly. "You know who I am?"

"Yeah. George told me that Section Two had an undercover op here, and that I should find you if I could. He wanted me to give you a  
message."

"What message is that?"

The man grinned. "That other prisoner from Section One? Paul Wolfe? Well, he's a liability. George wants you to cancel him."

"Cancel him?" she asked, barely able to find her voice. "But that's not necessary. I've figured out a way to help him escape."

"No, you don't get it," the man laughed. "George doesn't _want_ him to escape. And a good thing, too -- he's a real pain in the ass. It'll be nice to be rid of him."

"I see," she said, her words coming out slowly, as she grew almost dizzy with shock. Cancel him. Direct orders. Dear God.

"Oh, one minor detail." His expression grew slightly worried. "You didn't hear this from me."

"What?"

"Uh, this isn't an official order, you see. It's a personal request from George. No one else -- especially not Adrian -- is supposed to know about it. Your story should be that he was starting to give up intel, so you had no choice but to cancel him."

Madeline frowned. "Are you telling me that you and George are the only ones who know about this order?"

"Yeah. But believe me, there'll be hell to pay if we don't carry it out. He made that _real_ clear."

She blinked several times as the meaning of his words sank in. Hell to pay? George had already sent her to hell. What more could he do? Especially if he never found out that his message had been delivered.

Her decision made, she casually shifted the pen in her hand until her thumb braced the flat end. She looked him in the eyes, her expression completely benign, as she thought back to the words of one of her trainers, uttered so many years before.

_"When you strike, you mustn't hesitate or hold back. You must be vicious, bloodthirsty, and willing to maim and kill. But above all, you must never let them see it coming."_

Smiling, she leaned in closer to him and whispered, "Don't worry. I'll make sure George doesn't give you any trouble."

As he smiled in relief, she dropped her notebook, seized the back of his neck with her free hand, and plunged the pen with all her strength into the front of his throat.


	10. Chapter 10

# 1999

Clicking her mouse, Madeline replayed the doctored video a fifth time. It was flawless -- thanks to Birkoff, Nikita's inability to seduce Markali would have no impact on the mission. But it had been a close call -- George's prediction of Nikita's failure had proven to be painfully accurate. Of course, it wasn't simply George's prediction -- in the back of her mind, Madeline had expected disaster all along. Nikita had more than lived up to that expectation.

Nikita's continued resistance to valentine scenarios was an immense frustration. The young operative seemed to have learned to _kill_ for the Section, and yet displayed an extreme aversion to an act that, to Madeline, posed far fewer moral dilemmas. Indeed, most operatives even considered such assignments a privilege -- they were considerably less dangerous than standard missions, with a much higher survival rate. And yet, to Nikita, they were anathema -- it truly defied logic.

This behavior could not be allowed to continue. Friendly advice hadn't worked; warnings had had no impact. Madeline could no longer afford the luxury of waiting for Nikita's performance to improve -- the next time Nikita fit a valentine profile, Madeline would simply resort to coercion. Subliminal techniques would probably be sufficient, perhaps something involving displacement of Nikita's affection for Michael. With luck, Nikita would learn something from the experience and such techniques would not need to be repeated.

Madeline pulled up Nikita's file and typed a quick note of the young woman's need for assistance with seduction assignments. As she was about to hit the key to enter the instructions, she paused, surprised by a vague feeling of discomfort. There was a time, far enough in the past that she no longer remembered exactly when, when she would have found such a tactic distasteful. How naïve that had been. After all, what were the alternatives? Operatives who failed to meet minimum standards of performance were required to be cancelled or placed in abeyance -- these methods allowed her to find a way around that. In reality, she would be doing Nikita a favor. How could that be wrong? It wasn't, she told herself firmly, and hit the enter key with extra force.

Closing the file again, she frowned as another thought crossed her mind. It was also possible that Nikita's failure in this instance had less to do with an aversion to valentine profiles _per se_ than with a suspicion that the mission itself was improper. If that were the case, it was likely that other operatives thought the same way. Perhaps some damage control was warranted. It would be easy enough for George to plant evidence of longstanding ties between Markali and Badenheim -- when the mission was over, Madeline could make sure those ties were well-publicized throughout the Section.

Damage control. Madeline shook her head wearily. This entire mission was a form of damage control. But soon, thank God, it would be over.

* * *

* * *

# 1980

For a moment that seemed suspended in time, the skin on the operative's throat stretched back -- the metal pen that Madeline wielded wasn't sharp enough to slice through the flesh effectively. But as she drove the point forward, gripping the back of the man's neck with her other hand for leverage, the skin suddenly punctured and collapsed inward with an jagged tear. After that, there was no resistance, and the pen nearly disappeared into the gaping wound, stopping only when the edge of her fist slammed into contact with his blood-spattered skin. Motionless, she held her hand there, transfixed by the vacant look that suddenly filled his eyes and the wet strangling sound that emerged from the opening in his throat.

She didn't blink as the warm blood spurted rhythmically into her face, nor did she flinch as the man's hands clutched her blouse in an unconscious but violent grip. She simply watched until he sank slowly to his knees, when she finally wrenched away with a shudder. He fell forward noiselessly and lay still, and a pool of dark crimson liquid began to encircle his head and stain the stark cement floor.

She was drenched in blood; it enveloped her in a sticky coating that seemed to reach everywhere -- her clothes, her face and hands, even her hair. She felt a droplet run down her cheek and enter the corner of her mouth; gagging, she spit it out in disgust.

This was the first life she had taken since that day so many years ago, that day she had tried so hard to drive from her memory. And that killing had been very different -- clean, even graceful, as Sarah spun and pirouetted in midair, tumbling into the distance. Her sister's death had looked so beautiful that Madeline had almost leapt off the edge of the landing after her, wanting to imitate the stunning acrobatics. It was only after Sarah landed on the gleaming parquet floor below that it had become ugly -- her eyes open, her neck twisted at an impossible angle, her body so very still.

This time, in contrast, the killing was hideous from the start -- revolting in its sheer gore, terrifying in its near-intimacy. And yet it was the earlier death that haunted her, that had instilled in her a sense of self-loathing that she could never entirely vanquish. This act -- although much more overtly brutal and unquestionably volitional -- caused her no guilt at all. Instead, it left her feeling only satisfaction, relief, and a flushed sense of accomplishment.

She admired the crumpled body as if in a trance, breathing slowly as a sense of deep calm began to relax her tensed muscles. She didn't turn immediately when she heard the door to the cell open -- at first, she didn't care. But then a semblance of rationality returned, and she spun around abruptly.

Petrosian stood in the doorway, staring with a seething intensity - not at the figure on the floor, but at her. He showed no signs of shock; rather, his face was misshapen and dark with an explosion of rage, with a bloodlust comparable in its potential for violence to that which she had felt moments before. It was a murderous violence -- and it was directed toward her.

He stepped slowly and deliberately into the room; instinctively, she began to back away.

"You!" he spat. "I can't believe it."

"He attacked me," she said, continuing to move away. "I had to defend myself."

He scowled in response and marched swiftly to the bench that stretched along one of the walls. Reaching under it, he pulled out a small transmitter and flung it at her. It hit her in the chest and then dropped to the floor, rolling several feet away.

"I heard everything!" he shouted. "You work for the Sections!"

Madeline's movement halted as her back collided with the wall. Positioning himself between her and the door, Petrosian glared at her balefully, fists clenched, breathing heavily.

"That operative started talking the minute we captured him," he said, glancing at the body on the floor. "He told me that he wanted to work for us, to be a double-agent. But it seemed just a little too good to be true. A little too convenient. So I put a gun to his head, and that's when he started begging. He told me he could prove he was for real, that he could identify a Section agent in our own midst." He smiled, the corner of his mouth twisting up sharply. "He said that agent was you."

He gave a coarse laugh and took a small step closer to her.

"Of course, I didn't believe him," he continued. "After all, the two of us have become _so close_." He sneered as he emphasized the last two words. "Why, I was so offended that I punched him in the face for insulting you like that. But then he pleaded with me to put a transmitter in his cell and listen. I agreed without hesitation because I was so sure you would prove him a liar. I was even going to let you do the honors of executing him afterwards." He laughed again. "Although I see you took care of that anyway."

Without warning, Petrosian lunged at her, slamming her head against the wall and seizing her neck in both hands.

"You lying bitch," he whispered through gritted teeth as he tightened his grip, "you thought you could use me to spy on the KGB, that I was a fool to be manipulated?"

She tried to gasp, tried to fight back, but her agitated efforts only succeeded in accelerating the loss of oxygen. When her struggle failed, she panicked briefly, realizing she was going to die. But as she weakened, she stopped caring. There was nothing to be done -- the blackness would soon swallow her, and nothing more would matter. Then, just as she was poised to surrender, Petrosian unexpectedly released her. She wheezed violently, lungs burning, and slumped limply to the floor.

"You deserve to have your neck snapped in two for this," he said, his face an indistinct blur hovering above her. "But lucky for you, I have a better idea."

* * *

_The session was inconclusive._

Lying on the mattress, Paul repeated Madeline's words in his mind again and again. He shivered under the blanket, curling up tightly, as a horrible realization ate at him: she had lied. He had seen it in her face, in the way that she had trouble looking at him at first, but then stared at him defiantly, daring him to disbelieve her. The session had been anything but inconclusive, of that he was certain.

Her expression had also revealed something else -- something even more worrying than the lie -- an emotion that he couldn't quite identify, but that had looked distinctly like fear. Whatever he had told her under hypnosis, whatever she was hiding -- it had frightened her severely.

He could think of only one reason why she would lie to him, why she might be afraid -- the session must have confirmed that he was, indeed, losing his mind. His nightmares had nothing to do with reality; instead, they were delusions produced by mental infirmity. By lying, she was trying to protect him from that awful truth.

He wished that he could have believed her lie. He even wished that he could have pretended to do so, that he could have ignored the significance of what he had learned. But now, with his worst fears confirmed, he knew he had a duty to fulfill. He couldn't allow his mental incapacitation to worsen, potentially endangering missions or his fellow operatives. He would have to come clean about his problem -- and, if necessary, to accept an abeyance assignment. There was nothing dishonorable about abeyance. It would at least allow him to die doing something useful.

Without warning, a wave of sadness slammed into him with almost shuddering force. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, his muscles clenching in agony. But it wasn't the prospect of his own death that pained him so -- that, he had come to expect, sooner or later. Instead, it was a sadness born of disappointment, of dashed hopes -- of hopes he should never have indulged in.

When Madeline had mentioned an alternate life history for him, he had foolishly allowed himself to believe it might be possible. He had allowed himself to want it. To _need_ it. To need it so much that, despite her warnings, he had insisted on finding out. But he should have listened to her -- now, after the hypnosis, knowing it was an illusion, he would rather be dead.

Yes, he should have listened to her. But the temptation had been too much for him to resist. Madeline couldn't have known that, couldn't have understood it. She couldn't have known that she had given him -- false, as it turned out -- hope that he had achieved his greatest wish: to have a child, a son. She had no way of knowing that, after all the lives he had taken, he had desperately wanted to create another -- even just one. To have his own flesh and blood legacy, a personal stake in the world he was protecting and the future he was building. To know that his efforts and sacrifices would benefit his own descendants instead of just those of other people. No, she couldn't have possibly known how much he wanted that -- and how much it hurt to be reminded  
that it could never be. That he was the end of his line. A dead end.

_A dead end, soon to be dead myself,_ he thought, grimacing.

* * *

"Here, let me help you up," said Petrosian, reaching down to offer Madeline his hand. His anger had mysteriously vanished; the change in manner was jarring, almost frightening in its suddenness.

She took his hand and he pulled her to her feet. She stared at him blankly, dizzy from the lack of oxygen. Her neck still throbbed from where he had throttled her; she rubbed her throat softly in an effort to ease the pain.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper," he said, smiling apologetically. "But you have to understand -- if anyone found out that I was having an affair with a Section spy, I'd be dead. Quite literally. So when I found out that's what you were, I became just a bit angry."

She nodded. What he said was indisputable -- she _had_ put his life in danger. His reaction had been severe, but understandable. Indeed, standing here, drenched in the blood of her own victim, she could hardly criticize.

"To be honest, my first instinct was to kill both you and the other operative, so that no one would know I had been compromised," he continued. "It wouldn't have been personal, of course," he added with another smile.

"Of course," Madeline murmured. How could it be personal? In their world, things like killing or sex, things that for ordinary people were driven by emotions like hate or love, were merely job duties to be performed when necessary, with neither malice nor attachment. No, it wouldn't have been personal. Nothing was.

"But then I began to worry -- if I killed you, even if I made it look like an accident, there would probably be an inquiry. What if somehow your real identity came up? If it did, I would have a lot of explaining to do. And so I've decided that the best way I can protect myself is to protect you -- to make sure that your cover isn't blown." He gave her a friendly wink. "To sign on with your team, in essence. Isn't that good news?"

"I see," she responded, frowning in an effort to make sense out of his statement. If he had already decided that he was going to keep her alive and protect her identity, why had he choked her nearly to death? She thought back to how he treated his employees, how he switched effortlessly from witty, charming -- even solicitous -- to brutal and sadistic, and then back again, and she knew the answer: it was because he enjoyed it. She suppressed a shudder. Over the years, not a small number of people had accused her of being a sociopath. At times, she had even wondered whether they might be right. Now -- with a real sociopath standing before her -- she knew better.

"Here's how I see it," he announced. "I let you live and give you people first rate intelligence. In return, the Section helps me eliminate my rivals in the KGB and paves my way to the leadership position I so richly deserve." He chuckled. "Why, it's perfect!" He beamed, thoroughly pleased with himself.

Madeline stifled the urge to cringe in disgust and forced herself to smile at the man. Recruiting Petrosian -- whose only loyalty was to himself -- would probably be a horrible mistake, but with her cover blown, she had very little choice but to agree to his suggestion. Later, she could warn her handlers that he could never be trusted.

For now, however, his assistance might actually be very useful.

"Well then," she said, "I think you've come up with a solution that works for both of us. The Section will be thrilled to have you."

"Yes, I am a great catch," he agreed, puffing out his chest proudly. "I'm sure your superiors will give you a commendation for bringing me  
in."

"No doubt," she said, pretending to be enthusiastic. She placed a hand on his arm. "But now, since we're partners, I need a favor. A very small favor."

"Oh, anything for my new comrade," he said magnanimously.

"Good." She smiled at him warmly. "It's quite simple, really. I just need you to use your sources to track down a few people."

* * *

Ignoring the buffeting wind, George took careful steps down the icy metal stairs propped against the body of the jet, descending toward the limousine that waited, idling, on the tarmac. He nodded at the driver, who stood stoically by the open door in a heavy overcoat and hat, climbed into the rear seat, and settled back against the leather cushions. When the door thumped closed and, moments later, the car pulled off smoothly, he breathed a sigh of relief.

How good it was to be back in Brussels, back in his own territory -- and away from Section One.

The relief was, he knew, premature. While Richard had sabotaged the rescue mission to the Ukraine exactly as George had instructed, the lack of news still troubled him. But he simply couldn't wait in Section One any longer -- the other Sections needed him, couldn't run without him. And in truth, he needed them.

To George, Section One was a nightmare -- controlled chaos, kept from exploding only by the extraordinary force of Adrian's personality. While she always maintained the appearance of regimented efficiency -- even decorum -- he could always hear the ticking time bomb in the background whenever he visited Paris. There were no rules, no protocols, nothing but Adrian's -- admittedly -- brilliant mind to determine the proper course of action. But what if something happened to her -- or what if, God forbid, she made an error in judgment? She never seemed to appreciate that danger -- but it haunted George. And to think that she wanted to hand off command to someone even more individualistic than she was -- and a bombastic, arrogant American, at that -- it was dreadful, a disaster in the making.

George could only tolerate the atmosphere in Section One for so long before he had to flee -- to escape to the saner environment he had created, where he merely had to pull a string for an entire bureaucratic apparatus to respond. And here he was, home again. Thank God.

If only he could be certain about the situation in the Ukraine, to know that the last of his problems had been solved, things would be perfect. Still, he had covered every contingency -- how could anything go wrong?

* * *

Madeline closed the report given to her by Petrosian and pushed it away, across the desk. She stared at the document blankly, trying to digest what she had learned.

_So now what?_ she asked herself, knowing there would be no answer. Burdened with knowledge, she was powerless to act. Helpless. Trapped.

In only two days, Petrosian's far-flung sources had been able to provide independent confirmation of virtually all of Paul's recollections under hypnosis. What's more, they had enabled Madeline to keep her promise to Paul: she had found his family. Or, rather, she had found one member. Corinne, sadly, was dead -- had died years before, shortly after Paul failed to return from Vietnam with the other POWs. But Stephen -- placed in foster care afterwards -- was still alive, and Madeline now had his location.

As gratifying as it was to locate Stephen, it was the other information that Petrosian's sources had retrieved that was the most revealing -- and damning, as far as Section One was concerned. One of the sources had located a second Corinne Wolfe, alive and well, happily remarried, and, oddly, an active terrorist sympathizer, known for pushing her politician husband into questionable alliances. The source had even provided a photo of the woman -- or at least a grainy photocopy of one. When she saw it, Madeline gasped aloud. It was Christine, an operative Madeline recognized from her days as a recruit. They had known each other quite well -- indeed, had been training partners for most of Madeline's second year in Section Two. Finding a 'fake' Corinne hadn't shocked Madeline -- she had already suspected as much. But discovering that it was someone she knew -- someone who could even be described as having been close to her -- was disconcerting. It made her feel almost complicit, unclean.

Petrosian's Vietnamese sources had also been helpful. Phan, the interrogator whose report Madeline had read, was no longer to be found -- in Vietnam, that is. But he had turned up in America -- smuggled out at the war's end, the KGB suspected, by the Sections themselves. He had apparently joined a criminal netherworld, carving a small empire for himself -- but was still available to provide information or assistance if the Sections needed him to. Willie Kane, too, had been easily traced. According to the Vietnamese, he had been a traitor -- it had been his betrayal that had led to the capture of Paul's unit in the first place. While Willie, like Paul, had spent seven years in the camp, he hadn't been an ordinary prisoner; instead, he had lived in relative comfort with the guards, writing English-language propaganda for Vietnamese radio broadcasts. He had been smuggled back to America at the same time as Phan -- just in time to recreate Paul's captivity for fifteen days while Section One wiped his memory clean.

The only information Petrosian's sources hadn't been able to uncover was the identity of the man Paul believed he had killed. No record of him existed with the Vietnamese, even though Paul had been certain he was working with Phan. But the report cited Vietnamese soldiers who remembered such a man -- he was not a figment of Paul's imagination, whoever he was. The mystery surrounding his identity made Madeline suspicious. No, more than suspicious -- certain. He was Section, without any question -- what else could he be? Doing what, and why, she didn't know. Perhaps she was better off not knowing. She knew too much as it was.

Abruptly, she stood up and walked away from the harsh circle of illumination cast by the small desk lamp, returning to sit on the bed. As she stared at the dark shadows on her wall, she felt herself growing overwhelmed with a sense of seething, uncontrollable outrage. Until this mission, she had harbored an absurdly romantic view of the Sections -- seeing them as a latter-day French Foreign Legion, a refuge for criminals, misfits, and failures, where they could gain a second chance, no questions asked, and an opportunity to redeem themselves. That's what Section Two had been to her; that's what the Sections had been, in one way or another, to everyone Madeline had met throughout her career there. For every one of them -- except Paul -- recruitment had led to a more meaningful life than would otherwise have been possible. It was a fair deal -- even with the Sections' unforgiving rules -- and Madeline had never before questioned its morality.

But Paul had had a better life in front of him -- he had had a loving family and, with his wartime background, a brilliant potential career in the military, business, or even politics. He hadn't needed the Sections to make a difference in the world -- he would have done it on his own. As far as Madeline could tell, Paul's only crime had been to serve his country too bravely -- for this, the Sections had stripped his life away.

This knowledge destroyed all of Madeline's illusions about the nobility of the Sections, casting her into a mental state so bleak that she couldn't even make herself feel anymore. She wanted desperately to feel sadness and grief, to shed bitter tears for what had been done to him, but her soul had become a dark, bottomless pit from which nothing could be retrieved. Nothing except anger -- a cold, methodical anger that suffused every molecule of her being.

But if rage was all she had left, she would accept it; it offered her a kind of power, and she would tap into it. Succumbing to its intoxicating embrace, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and made two vows -- vows that, if necessary, she would spend the rest of her life fulfilling, at any price, at any cost.

First, she would ensure that Paul never again suffered the pain and hurt that she had witnessed when he had sobbed so desperately in her arms. He had been devastated, vulnerable, and weak -- a condition that she would not allow to recur. To survive in the Sections, he had to be strong; she would make him so again and make sure that he stayed that way. If he needed help, she would help him -- if necessary, she would even be strong _for_ him. No one could be allowed to find or exploit any weakness -- by the time she was done with him, he would be invincible, untouchable.

In order to fulfill this vow, however, she had a very ugly task to carry out.

She stood from the bed and switched on the overhead light, blinking at its yellowish glare. She then pulled her suitcase from the closet, opened it determinedly, and began rummaging through its contents. She quickly retrieved what she was searching for: the mind-altering drugs that she was supposed to have been administering to Paul for Ohanian, but instead had been hiding until she could discard them discreetly. It was fortunate that she not yet found an opportunity to destroy them -- as it turned out, she would need them after all.

Paul's nightmares were a sign of returning memories -- memories that, if recovered, would destroy and weaken him just as they had when he was under hypnosis. To keep him strong, to help him survive, she therefore had to obliterate those memories -- to do the job that his original programmers had failed to do. To bring his mind under total control. To allow the Sections to win.

The Sections would have their victory -- they would get what they wanted, not just from Paul, but from her as well. For by performing the memory modification process on Paul, she would become the person they wanted her to be. She would accept her preordained destiny as the Sections' very own brainwasher -- and she would do so without complaint, without a struggle, and without regret.

Paul would be the lucky one -- he would never know the truth, would never remember what had been done to him. But she would never escape it, would never forget. And out of that knowledge came her second vow: they would pay. They would pay for taking away Paul's identity, for taking away who he had been -- and they would pay for forcing an identity upon her, for taking away who she _could_ have been. The Sections wanted the two of them to become certain people -- well, she would oblige. But only for a price.

First, there would be a personal price, to be paid by the woman ultimately responsible, the woman who ran the Sections and dictated their activities. How she would pay -- and when -- didn't matter now. But someday, somehow, she would pay dearly.

But it wasn't only Adrian who owed the debt. So did the Sections themselves -- as an organization, they had taken Paul's life away and forced him to submit to their will. In return, someday the Sections would submit to _his_ will -- he would become their commander and run them as he saw fit. Only that way would his unknowing sacrifice become worthwhile -- maybe even justified. As she made this final vow, she smiled -- he truly would be a superb leader. Helping him take command wouldn't simply be a matter of obtaining justice for his sake, it would be what was _right_.

Her anger had coalesced into determination, and the determination gave her an odd sense of calm. As she reflected on the promises she had made to herself, she realized that she was far from helpless. In fact, there was one additional thing she could do. It would be foolhardy beyond comprehension, but she was becoming used to taking risks. She couldn't turn back time, and she couldn't give Paul his old life back, but there was one memory she could allow -- one small gift she could bestow. She placed the drugs and a syringe in her bag, a fierce resolve engulfing her, and exited the room. She had spent the past two days feigning illness in her room, wanting to hide the marks on her neck from both Paul and Ohanian. They hadn't healed yet, but she didn't care. She had a visit to pay to Paul -- now, before she changed her mind.


	11. Chapter 11

# 1999

It was easier to maintain a blank expression than she had expected. Madeline had thought that witnessing Christine's final deterioration would be difficult, even painful. And yet watching the video feed of Christine as she cringed fearfully in her home, gunning down Markali in stark terror, Madeline felt nothing. The camera created a clinical distance that allowed her to react as if she were observing a routine mission -- not even Paul's presence next to her triggered anything but detached appreciation for how well things had fallen into place.

Now, it was over -- it was all, finally over, without repercussions, without disaster. The status quo was protected; everything would remain as it should be. She should have felt tremendous relief after the stress and uncertainty of the past few days, but she couldn't conjure up even a single emotion. Perhaps the strain of so much unaccustomed mental turmoil had simply overwhelmed what was left of her ability to feel. So much the better. Emotions had always impaired her performance -- she had made her worst mistakes under their influence.

She wished she could have been as numb earlier -- it would have eased the discomfort she felt while performing the grim tasks that had fallen to her. Not that she had allowed her feelings to get in the way of necessity. As always, she had simply done her job -- slipping real drugs to the unsuspecting Christine, exposing the woman to the subliminal suggestions that convinced her she really was Corinne Markali.

Christine's paranoia and jealousy over Nikolai were genuine; her mental collapse would be permanent. From now on, she would forever be Corinne Markali -- and life as Corinne would not be pleasant. Deluded, institutionalized, medicated -- even if, somehow, she remembered her former life, no one would believe her. No loose ends, no security risk -- she was neutralized as effectively as if she had been cancelled. Except that cancellation would have been kinder.

Distasteful as Christine's induced insanity was, it was also, unfortunately, necessary. Christine was useless now as an operative, and Paul could be expected to check on her from time to time. In a few years, once the public had forgotten the scandal, Madeline would arrange for a painless death by an overdose of medication. A small favor, maybe -- but it was the only act of mercy she could offer.

She suspected that she owed Christine more than an act of mercy, however. In many ways, Walter -- in all his accusatory self-righteousness -- had been right. Christine hadn't brought on what was happening to her -- she had done her job diligently, had never even been considered for abeyance -- and yet she had been sentenced to a hideous fate. All in order to protect a lie -- a lie that Madeline hadn't created, but had perpetuated and -- even worse -- exaggerated. It was no comfort to Christine that Madeline had acted with the best of intentions -- indeed, that only made things worse. Madeline had allowed herself to be swayed by love and anger -- the two emotions most likely to distort rational thinking -- and, inevitably, there had been a price. Christine was only the latest person to pay.

There was one final irony, as well -- a cruel joke that perhaps only Adrian could have appreciated. In order to ensure Paul's future leadership of Section One, Adrian had stripped him of his memories; years later, Madeline sought to preserve his leadership by doing the same to someone else. Adrian's motivation had become Madeline's; now, so too had her methods.

_Eventually, you become your enemy,_ she thought, and closed her eyes in disgust.

* * *

* * *

# 1980

Paul took a final, lingering drag on his cigarette -- the last of the ones the guard had given him -- and ground out the butt against the wall. For a moment, he stretched back out along the hard mattress and stared up at the ceiling, but he was too restless to stay there long. Jumping up, he walked over to the small sink and gripped the tap. He twisted it on with a rusty squeal and dipped his hands into the frigid water, splashing it on his face.

The temperature of the water took his breath away, but that was what he needed. He had felt feverish all day -- not with any illness, but with worry and anxiety. Gasping for air, he gripped the edge of the sink for balance, as the water continued to splash noisily. He stared at it as it swirled down the drain, his thoughts pouring out with it.

It had been two days since he had last seen Madeline -- two days since he had been interrogated at all -- and the uncertainty of the situation was creating fears that rampaged uncontrollably through his mind. Had they discovered that Madeline was faking the mind control process? Had her true identity been exposed? Was she in danger -- or worse, already dead?

When he had asked the guard who brought his meals whether his interrogation had finished, the man had merely shrugged. One of the interrogators was sick, the guard explained. The explanation only worried Paul more -- sick could mean sick, of course, but it could also be like the 'colds' that disfavored Politburo members always seemed to catch.

Paul wrenched the tap shut and straightened up, almost nauseated with guilt. What the hell had he been thinking? Madeline was risking her life in order to help him escape -- when, with his worsening mental disability, he would simply be condemned to an abeyance assignment upon his return to Section One. In reality, he was a lost cause, a wasted effort -- and it was insanity for her to continue to expose herself that way.

He couldn't allow her to endanger herself any further -- and yet he knew, by the fact that she had tried to lie to him about the extent of his condition, that she would refuse to stop voluntarily. As a result, rather than joining a Section One abeyance team, he would create his own 'suicide mission' here. It would be easy enough to attack one of the guards in a hopeless 'escape attempt', provoking a fatal fight -- and when he died, Madeline would be freed from the burden of helping him. Her cover would remain intact, and she would be protected. He owed her that much. That is, if it wasn't already too late to help her.

He walked across the room and leaned against the wall in a spot where he would be hidden behind the door as it opened. It was nearly time for the evening meal -- when the guard arrived, he would attack and set events in motion toward their inevitable -- and fatal -- conclusion.

The wait seemed endless, although it was probably less than a half an hour. Hearing a noise, he tensed in readiness as the door swung slowly open. As the door closed with a slam, a figure stepped inside -- hesitantly, since Paul was nowhere to be seen -- and Paul lunged in attack. But his opponent had quick reflexes -- his arms grasped empty air. Before he could even reorient himself, he felt a savage shove against his shoulder as his feet were kicked viciously out from under him. He flew backwards and landed with a hard thud on the rough cement floor.

"Oof," he grunted in pain, rolling into a crouch so that he could continue the fight. As he looked up to challenge his adversary, he froze in surprise. It was Madeline, her face a volatile mixture of shock and fury.

"Jesus, Madeline, where have you been? I've been worried sick about you." He climbed to his feet stiffly, grimacing after the blow of the fall.

"Worried about me? That's a funny way to show it."

Straightening his back with a wince, he forced a smile. "I thought you were someone else." He laughed lightly. "That was one hell of a throw, by the way. Knocked the wind right out of me."

He had hoped that she would laugh in return. She didn't. Instead, her expression turned even graver.

"Paul, why don't you sit down."

"What is it?" He frowned. Then, looking at her more closely, he saw dark purple marks on her neck. Instead of sitting, he marched swiftly to her and grasped her by the shoulders in alarm. "What's happened? Who did this to you?"

She shook her head. "That doesn't matter. It's been taken care of. But please, sit down -- I have something to tell you."

Reluctantly, he obeyed. She sat beside him, deposited the bag she had been carrying onto the floor, and twisted her hands nervously. After several moments, she stopped and looked him in the eye.

"The other day -- I told you the results of the hypnosis were inconclusive."

"Yes, I remember."

"I lied."

A heavy silence hung between them. As the seconds passed, her expression grew more and more stricken, as her eyes seemed nearly to overflow with anguished regret.

He reached for her hand and stroked it. Their fingers alternately intertwined, released, and intertwined again. "I know. I knew all along. You wanted to protect me. But it's all right. I'm going to take care of it."

"What do you mean?" She frowned sharply.

"I know what you found out."

She drew in her breath in shock. The sorrow in her eyes metamorphasized into a look of almost overwhelming fear.

"How could you possibly--" she whispered.

"I knew from the way you told me that you were lying. And that you were afraid of whatever you had learned. So I came to the only logical conclusion there was -- all the nightmares and memory lapses _are_ a symptom of some sort of mental decline." He smiled at her regretfully. "You should have just told me. I have to face the truth eventually."

She closed her eyes and shook her head. "No, no, no, that's not it at all." She opened her eyes again and looked deeply into his. Her eyes seemed to melt with tender affection; he felt himself pulled into their bottomless pools. "You _did_ remember something. But I didn't want to tell you until I verified it independently. I wanted to make sure it was real first."

A surge of energy pulsed through him; he leaned forward and squeezed her hand more tightly.

"My God! What?"

She reached out and gently placed her other hand on his cheek. "Let me put you back under so you can find out for yourself."

* * *

When Paul returned to full awareness, he looked at Madeline in astonishment. Slowly, the look of astonishment turned to wonder, and then to elation.

"My God, I remember him," he laughed, his face lit brightly with an expression of unbridled joy. "I remember him," he repeated, beaming and shaking his head. "My own son, I remember him."

Tears filled his eyes, even as he continued to laugh. He grasped Madeline's hand and squeezed it hard.

"You don't know -- you _can't_ know -- how much this means to me. There's nothing I'll ever be able to do to repay you."

He gave her a look of such boundless gratitude that her heart thrilled for a moment -- but then, with a stab of remorse, she remembered, glancing uncomfortably at the bag on the floor that held the used syringe and empty vial. She had returned to him only a fraction of what he had lost -- the rest, she had wiped away completely. Thus, no matter how precious the gift, it was wrapped in betrayal. An instrument of his continued deception, she didn't deserve his gratitude. Perhaps she didn't even deserve his love.

"You're the one who remembered him." She shrugged, a bitter taste rising in the back of her throat. "I just helped speed up a recollection that would have come back to you sooner or later anyway."

"But why did I forget?" The question in his eyes, so innocent, so trusting of her to answer, was an unknowing accusation. A wave of guilt crashed and surged over her, dragging her under its roiling current.

"I don't know exactly," she lied, fighting to maintain a calm demeanor even as she felt her spirit struggle and drown. "I would imagine, like you said, it was some sort of battlefield-induced trauma."

"And the rest of that file you read -- the seven years -- none of it was true?"

"No," she said, struggling to keep her voice from wavering. "As I suspected, your file was mixed up with someone else's. I'm sorry I misled you."

"And the nightmares?"

"Won't trouble you anymore," she said firmly.

"What did they mean?"

"We can never be sure. It's possible the man you dreamed of killing might have represented repressed anger over your recruitment to Section One." She paused and smiled reassuringly. "But it doesn't matter now."

She relaxed and allowed the guilt to carry her away -- it no longer hurt; instead, it had simply become a part of her. Or her a part of it. She couldn't tell, but it didn't really matter which. It suffused her, coursing through her veins, as her resistance to it turned to surrender and then acceptance. It was, after all, an old and loyal friend -- possessing her for years after Sarah died, it had been almost her only companion. Now, it appeared, it would be again.

"In any event," she continued, taking a deep breath as she felt a dull kind of serenity begin to grow, "I've done some things -- given you some suggestions -- that will make sure that you don't have those dreams anymore."

"My God, you're a miracle worker," he said, shaking his head in admiration. But then he frowned. "But what about Corinne?"

"What about her?"

"Well," he said, his voice uncertain, "I've seen surveillance of her -- I've even watched her myself. Stephen's not with her. Why?"

Her serenity shattered. She realized with a sickening shock that she had allowed a terrible flaw in her plan. So swept up in the thought of giving Stephen back to Paul, in allowing him to have _something_ that belonged to him, she had completely forgotten to come up with an explanation for this discrepancy. The truth -- that Corinne was dead, and that the woman he had seen was a fraud -- was not an option. And what if now, armed with knowledge of Stephen, he started investigating and found Corinne's death certificate? The entire fraud could unravel, he could learn what Section One had done to him -- and he would be crushed and destroyed. Or even worse, he could grow so enraged that he might do something rash, endangering his life.

Thinking rapidly, almost in a panic, she blurted out the first explanation she could think of -- the _only_ explanation she could think of, in fact.

"Corinne..." she said with a frown, "Corinne abandoned Stephen."

"What?" His face darkened with shock and rage.

"She must have wanted a new life, free from her old burdens. From the records I was able to find, it seems she faked her death, abandoned her son, and then started her life again in a new location."

Madeline was trembling as she finished the explanation. The lie was horrible, despicable, maybe even worse than despicable. It was also grossly disrespectful toward the late Corinne Wolfe's memory. But there had been no other choice. Surely even Corinne herself would have understood that -- how could Stephen's mother disapprove of a lie that allowed Paul to be given his son once again, or at least the memory of him? If she did, Madeline could always apologize to her in the afterlife -- if there was one, that is. Or perhaps not. Corinne had probably been welcomed in heaven -- but Madeline suspected that her eternal destination might be someplace very different.

"I should kill her," Paul said bitterly, a look of lethal hatred locking the muscles of his face. "By God, one of these days I will."

_Dear God,_ she thought, _what have I done?_

* * *

The breeze ruffled Adrian's hair as she strolled along the Parisian sidewalk. It was a beautiful day, the type of day that brought out happily gawking tourists with their bulky cameras and burdens of shopping bags. She hadn't been able to stay inside Section -- the lure of the sunlight had beckoned her irresistibly, even in Section's underground depths. Outside, it warmed her and energized her, enabling her to concentrate in a way she never could in her own office.

The sunlight could cure many things -- but not all. It couldn't relieve the uncertainty that plagued her as she contemplated the fate of her chosen successor. When the rescue team disappeared, she had been ready to give up all hope, resigned to the fact that she would need to start her search all over again, that the energy she had expended training and teaching Paul Wolfe had been an utter waste. But then it struck her -- George's Section Two operative, that bloodless would-be Mengele who was the most likely instrument of Paul's death -- hadn't reported back to Paris yet. If Paul were dead, she would have returned already; hence, she had kept him alive. But why?

George might be able to explain what was going on. He knew Madeline well -- indeed, he seemed inordinately fond of both her and her repugnant research. While Adrian recognized the value of gaining intelligence on even the enemy's most inhumane activities, and thus tolerated the existence of the mission, George seemed morbidly fascinated with every detail their operative reported back. No, not their operative -- _his_ operative -- Adrian would claim no responsibility for the creature. But where was George? Adrian had many questions, but he hadn't returned her calls. He had been ensconced at Section Three for days -- in 'meetings', according to the secretaries who seemed to be screening the telephone for him.

It was troubling -- no business at Three, no business of George's -- could possibly override a call from Adrian. There was a strict hierarchy of which he apparently needed to be reminded: Section One's needs came first, above all else. It had always been so; so it always would be.

* * *

Madeline pushed the food on her plate mechanically -- eating without tasting, looking without seeing. When Petrosian asked for the butter, she handed it to him without a word; when Ohanian offered her bread, she took it silently. The pang in her stomach might have been hunger, but sensations were meaningless. Even the scarf that she wore around her neck to hide her bruises, which normally would have felt uncomfortable when she swallowed, was simply another thing to be ignored. From now on, she would simply do -- not feel. Feeling was too dangerous -- once one emotion slipped through, the others would come rushing back, stronger and more overpowering than ever. And all of them, in her case, would turn bitter and poisonous. It was better to have none than to suffer that.

An abrupt clatter made her look up. Ohanian had set down his knife and fork and sat staring at her. Frowning, he removed his glasses and placed them on the table.

"All right. You have some questions to answer." A spark of anger lit his eyes.

"Questions about what?" she asked mildly, too listless even to react to his expression of disapproval.

His eyes narrowed. "I've been talking to the guards about your visits to our captive. I know all about what you've been up to."

A tendril of fear began to twist around her emotional defenses, and she straightened nervously in her chair.

"She hasn't been up to anything," Petrosian interjected, glancing at her furtively before returning his gaze to Ohanian. "I've been observing personally." His manner was calm and casual -- the perfect ally. If it were his word against that of the guards, she was in no danger.

"Oh, yes she has," Ohanian snapped, turning toward Petrosian with a withering look. "And if you've been 'observing', as you say, it's your fault, too."

Ohanian leaned forward slowly, tensed in rage, his fury nearly exploding from his frail frame. Petrosian raised his eyebrows and sat back in his chair. He swallowed visibly; his face paled.

"What sort of a man are you?" Ohanian asked icily, mockingly. "What sort of a man would stand by and do nothing while his woman does something like this to herself? I hold you completely responsible for what's happened."

Ohanian's words registered in Madeline's mind, but didn't quite make sense. Doing what to herself?

"What are you talking about?" she asked, bewildered.

"Look at you!" He swept a thin hand toward her. "You've been sick for days, and even now you look like you're on the verge of collapse. You aren't eating; you probably haven't been sleeping." His voice was tremulous and close to breaking; he had to stop to clear his throat. "And it's all from overwork. The guards told me how many hours you've spent working on the prisoner. Egran should have stopped you -- or at least told me." He looked back at Petrosian darkly.

She relaxed in relief, feeling her heart rate drop by several beats. "But I was simply doing what was necessary to get the job done," she explained.

"No." He sighed and shook his head sadly. His anger seemed to dissipate; his tone softened. "My dear, I understand how you must feel. You've never had a chance to do such important work on your own before, without my supervision. You probably think you have something to prove. So you've been overdoing it, pushing yourself too hard. But that's foolish. The prisoner wasn't going anywhere. It wouldn't have mattered if it took a few more days to finish."

Madeline and Petrosian exchanged brief looks.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You're right. I have been working too hard." She smiled in mock abashment. "I just wanted you to be proud of me."

Ohanian smiled fondly. "I am. I'm angry at you for being so reckless with your health, but I'm very proud indeed." His eyes glimmered with tears, but he quickly blinked them back. "In fact, from the tests I gave him this morning, it seems you've managed to finish the prisoner far ahead of schedule. He's ready to be released."

"Released?" she asked, stifling her surprise. "When?"

"Tonight," he answered, and then picked up his glass of wine. "Congratulations. You've completed your first successful modification. Let's toast to many more."


	12. Chapter 12

# 1999

The telephone rang only once before George heard the other line click on.

"Yes?" Madeline answered.

Even from the single word, George could hear the transformation in her voice. Today, she sounded like her normal self -- guarded, but pleasant. It was a distinct contrast from George's last telephone conversation with her, when her stress had been readily apparent. Not that George had blamed her. He too had suffered while the Markali mission had been pending -- the thought of the head of Section One learning the truth about his recruitment and going on a vengeful rampage had not been particularly comforting to contemplate. Especially since George would have been one of the first ones Paul would have been  
gunning for.

"Things seem to have concluded satisfactorily," he said.

"Yes. Everything fell into place quite well. Thank you for your help."

"Not at all." He smiled to himself and took a deep breath. "I seem to have underestimated Nikita, by the way. Apparently she's learned some new skills since her last psych report was prepared."

"We're always trying to find ways to enhance our operatives' performance," she replied dryly.

"Good. I'm glad to hear it." He paused momentarily. "But it's a shame we had to waste Christine like that. She was a very hardworking operative."

"So I understand."

"You knew her quite well as a recruit, didn't you?"

"Reasonably well. But we hadn't seen each other in years." Madeline's voice was soft as velvet, showing no signs that she was in the least perturbed at her fellow-recruit's fate.

George frowned and leaned farther back in his chair. Something nagged at him, just out of reach in the recesses of his mind. Thinking aloud, he said, "You know, I think this episode ought to serve as a warning sign."

"What do you mean?"

"About Paul. I think he's becoming unstable."

The line was silent.

"Don't pretend you haven't noticed," he said.

He waited to see if she would respond. She didn't.

"After all, you're on the front lines," he continued, trying to goad her. "I'm sure you see the worst of it."

"We're all subject to stress at times," she declared, finally. She sounded dismissive, as if they were discussing something trivial. But George suspected that the casual tone was forced.

"You can keep your head in the sand if you like, Madeline," he warned, "but I think it's time you started thinking about your future."

Again, she said nothing. But after several seconds, she spoke, her voice low and smooth. "Well, I always take your advice very seriously, George. If I think there's a problem, you'll be the first person I call."

* * *

* * *

# 1980

The door to the cell swung slowly open, and Paul glanced up in anticipation. He had grown used to only two types of evening visits: a guard bearing food or cigarettes; or, better still, Madeline. Spotting Madeline's elegant form, clad in a dark wool skirt and a blouse with a colorful scarf, he grinned, but then quickly wiped the smile from his face. This time, she had a companion: a ruthless-looking man in an ill-fitting dark suit.

_Jesus Christ,_ Paul thought, _this guy's got KGB written all over him. What the hell is going on?_

As the door closed behind them, the man and Madeline exchanged unreadable looks. Madeline then turned to Paul.

"Paul," she said, smiling, "this is Egran Petrosian. He's an official with the KGB, but he recently started working with us."

So he _was_ KGB. Paul was glad to see that his gut was still in good operating order. But working with them? Why hadn't Madeline mentioned that she had an ally before?

Walking toward Paul, Madeline continued. "Ohanian has decided that you've passed all of his tests. That means you're going to be allowed to escape in the middle of the night."

Paul raised his eyebrows in surprise. So Madeline's insane plan had actually worked. He was going to be allowed to walk right out of this place completely unopposed. It was amazing, really. If things had been left up to him, he would have attempted a straightforward escape attempt -- and probably would have killed himself trying. Her way had been much more subtle, had required more patience. It was something he never would have come up with in a million years -- and yet it had worked perfectly. She was truly a genius -- and a delightfully devious one, at that.

_God, I could use her help on missions,_ he thought, but then with a pang of sorrow remembered that he couldn't. She would continue her undercover life, and he would go back to Section One. Their paths might never cross again. Finally, he had found someone he truly trusted, someone who, in Adrian's words, balanced out his weaknesses, only to lose her forever. It was gut-wrenchingly unfair.

But then he frowned as a fact, almost absurd in its very obviousness, occurred to him.

_Section One's in Paris; Madeline lives in Paris._

He pondered that fact for a moment, and then the corner of his mouth turned up in amusement.

_Why the hell can't I just go see her? Discreetly, of course._

"Egran is going to come by to let you out later," Madeline explained, apparently oblivious Paul's rapidly shifting thoughts. "I wanted to introduce the two of you ahead of time so you won't jump him when he enters your cell." She arched an eyebrow and gave Paul a sharp look. "I seem to remember that being a problem once before."

Paul chuckled, his mood suddenly light. "Well, I'm glad to meet you Egran. And I'm even more glad that I'm going to be getting out of this  
place."

"What?" Egran gave him a wry smile. "The hospitality of the Soviet Union isn't to your liking? You decadent capitalist!"

The two men shook hands. Egran had a strong grasp and held it just the right amount of time -- not too long, not too short. Paul approved -- he had an innate dislike of anyone with a weak or clammy grip, but Egran shook hands like a man.

Paul straightened his posture a bit, sensing he was being sized up, and he returned the other man's assessing gaze. Were they enemies? Rivals? Allies? It was too soon to tell. Judging by Egran's intrigued expression, he had the same unanswered questions.

Breaking their mutual inspection, Egran reached into a satchel he was carrying. With a flourish, he pulled out two large bottles of vodka and three glasses and set them on the floor.

"I think we ought to toast," he said effusively. "To your going home, and to my new life as one of Section One's finest."

Madeline's brows wrinkled faintly. "I'm not sure that's the best idea -- both of you have to be up in the middle of the night."

Egran gave her an exaggerated frown in return. "Don't be so serious all the time!" He turned to Paul. "You know, she is always soooo serious. It's annoying sometimes. All work and no play -- oh, what is that English saying again?"

"Makes Jack a dull boy," Paul finished.

"Makes Jack a dull boy," Egran repeated. He shook his head. "I don't understand this saying. Who is this Jack, anyway? And why do we care if he's dull?"

"I have no idea."

Both men laughed. Out of the corner of his eye, Paul saw Madeline roll her eyes.

With an undignified thump, Egran sat down cross-legged on the floor. He lined the glasses in a careful row, opened one of the bottles, and then looked up with a sly smile. "Come on, join me. I've made a major change in my life, and you two are the only ones I can celebrate with."

Paul shrugged. "No more electroshock sessions with the mad professor? Sounds like a good reason to have some Russian vodka to me."

He joined Egran on the floor, and the two men looked up expectantly at Madeline. She regarded the cigarette-stained floor with an air of disgust, but finally, with a sigh, sat, brushed the wrinkles from her skirt, and folded her legs delicately to one side.

Egran poured each of them an overly generous amount of the clear liquid.

"To many years of working together," he said, raising his glass.

They touched glasses and drank. Like Egran, Paul swallowed all of the liquid in one -- searing -- gulp. He shook his head, coughed a bit, blew out his breath in shock, and grinned. The grin grew even wider when he looked over at Madeline and saw her expression -- her face was tight, as if she had just swallowed hideous medicine but wanted to hide her distaste. Not a vodka drinker, apparently. He would have to find out what she did like. Probably something more sophisticated. Drinking straight vodka _was_ somewhat like being knocked on the head with a plank.

"I hope it's not too strong for you," Egran said, the corner of his mouth twitching. "It's a special brand."

Paul slammed the glass onto the floor with a loud clink. "Second round?"

"Hmmm," said Egran, pouring again. "This is going to be interesting."

A third round followed the second, and then a fourth. Eventually, Paul lost track of how many refills he had consumed, but judged it was too many by the fact that he and Egran started trading songs. Madeline refused to join in the singing, but her face was noticeably flushed.

"Ah, you Westerners are so lucky," Egran drawled, draping his arms over both Paul's and Madeline's shoulders. "In the West, all a man needs is brains and ambition, and he can build an empire. I could do so much there. But I had the misfortune of being born here." Removing his arms from their shoulders, he poured himself another glass and threw it back. "Do you know who I wanted to be when I was a boy?"

"Who?" Paul asked, smiling as a relaxing warmth enveloped him.

"John D. Rockefeller."

Paul laughed out loud, and Madeline made a face.

"Rockefeller?" Paul asked. "That doesn't sound very patriotic for a young comrade."

"No," Egran admitted. "We read about him in school as an example of the evils of capitalist oppression. But I always wanted to _be_ him. He was a man who made his mark on the world and didn't let anyone get in his way. That's the kind of man I admire."

"He was a bully," Madeline said pointedly. "And a tyrant."

Egran gave her a strange, triumphant look. "Maybe. But the world remembers him as a philanthropist."

Feeling an uneasy current chill the atmosphere of the room, Paul frowned. Madeline stood up abruptly, brushed off her skirt, and folded  
her arms.

"It's late," she said bluntly. "You need to get some sleep."

Egran grinned and stood up, wavering back and forth. He headed for the door and banged his fist against it. When the door opened, he started to exit but then hesitated, looking back at Madeline.

"Aren't you coming?"

She looked at him intensely. "No."

Egran looked back and forth between Paul and Madeline and then stared at her for several moments. For a second, Paul thought he saw a dark cloud pass across the other man's face, but then Egran chuckled.

"I should have known." He shook his head, smiling. "You two enjoy your goodbyes." He then looked over at Paul. "I'll be back in four  
hours to get you."

* * *

"Well, he was entertaining," Paul said with a short laugh.

"Yes, I suppose." Madeline frowned -- partly in distaste at the thought of Petrosian, partly because the room seemed to be tipping alarmingly off center.

"Can we trust him?" Uncannily, Paul voiced her very thoughts.

She blinked rapidly in an effort to clear her head of the alcohol-induced fog. After a few moments, the room stabilized; her vision cleared. She took a long, slow breath.

"He'll make sure you get home safely," she answered, avoiding the true question.

"Good." Paul's face then warmed in a wicked smile. "Speaking of which, where do you want me to take you to dinner when we both get back to Paris?"

"What?" She stared at him in confusion. He couldn't have possibly just said what she thought he had. The vodka must be affecting her even more than she realized -- which was already a great deal.

"I'm going to come see you when we're back in Paris," he announced smugly.

He wasn't asking, he wasn't suggesting -- he was _telling_ her, as if the decision were his alone to make. Her opinion, apparently, didn't matter. And yet instead of making her angry, his confidence -- his audaciousness -- actually thrilled her. Standing there, looking down at her with his hands in his pockets, he even looked slightly arrogant -- a look that oddly suited him, that enhanced the strength of his facial features. Entranced, she admired him for a few moments, but then reason pushed its way back into her consciousness and she shook her head.

"Have you lost your mind? I'm supposed to be undercover. You can't just show up at my doorstep."

"Why not?" He smirked, withdrawing his hands from his pockets and folding them across his chest with a self-satisfied air. "Your undercover persona doesn't go out on dates? Somehow I'm sure I can blend in with the throngs of admirers who must be beating down your door every weekend. Even though I _will_ be the best-looking one of the bunch."

"That's not the point," she said, trying to summon anger at him but not quite succeeding. "What if someone recognized you? What if Ohanian  
saw you?"

"That's easy. Just tell him that as a sideline to the programming you did, you turned me into your unwitting love slave." Paul winked. "It's a well-known fringe benefit for practitioners of the brainwashing business, you know. Didn't they tell you that when they gave you your union card?"

She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a burst of laughter. "Don't do that," she protested.

"What?" he asked in mock innocence.

"Make me laugh. This isn't funny."

"Why not? You look even more beautiful when you laugh." He stepped closer to her, chuckling softly. "Except I see I have to get you drunk for it to happen."

He continued to examine her, his expression growing more and more amused. Then, lifting an eyebrow, he offered her his hand, his eyes bright with a silent invitation.

Puzzled, she frowned.

"Can I have this dance, milady?" he asked, a silly smirk twisting his face.

She looked around the room pointedly. "I think _you're_ the one who's drunk. Do you see any way to play music?"

"Can't you hear it?" He took a step back, looking surprised, even hurt.

She shook her head. What was he talking about?

"I do. I hear music in my head every time I see you."

Astonished by this unabashedly romantic statement, she felt her heart actually give a leap. But she was too embarrassed to reciprocate. Instead, trying to ignore the flush she felt rush up her face, she glared at him, or at least hoped that it looked like a glare.

"If you get any sweeter, I'm going to need insulin."

He laughed and shook his head. "I see you're not the sentimental type. Somehow that doesn't surprise me. But please, I'm serious about the dance. Humor me. Just pretend there's music."

At a loss for words, she simply stared at him, for a time that seemed almost infinite, and watched his expression transform from amusement to tenderness. He reached out and caressed her cheek, so slowly that his fingers left a trail of warmth on her skin. Combined with the effect of the vodka, it made her feel feverish. Dizzy, she was unable to resist when he pulled her into his arms and began to trace a slow, circular path around the floor.

They swayed back and forth gently and steadily; occasionally, he paused, then turned or stepped to the side, pulling her along. He did indeed seem to move to a distinct rhythm, as if a song were playing in his mind -- as she rested her head on his shoulder, allowing his movements to guide her, she could almost hear it herself. When he shifted his arms to encircle her waist, she relaxed and sighed in contentment. He was a powerful man, a regal man, a man whose every gesture and movement exuded confidence and achievement. In another world, another lifetime, he could have been her protector -- here, wrapped in his embrace, she could at least pretend it was so.

Savoring the moment, she had almost completely given herself over to its sweetness, when she heard a distant sound. Not the lush music of Paul's imagination, but something else, something jarring. It was faint, at first, like a muffled echo or a badly tuned radio. But it sharpened and amplified until it grew recognizable as a voice. Her own voice.

_You don't deserve this_, the voice told her. _If he only knew what you'd done, he'd hate you._

She tried to ignore the voice, to will it away, but it grew louder, deafening. Even as she pressed more tightly against him, it taunted her; as her body expressed her love for him, her mind cried out that she was a traitor. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she answered back.

_I did it to protect him. To keep him strong._

But the voice wasn't convinced. It continued its rebuke. _He deserves to know the truth about what was done to him._

_No, he doesn't,_ she countered defiantly. _It would kill him. I've saved his life._

With that, the inner voice fell silent. For the moment. She knew, deep down, it would eventually be back. But for now she would rejoice in its defeat.

Taking a deep breath, she looked up, and her gaze met his eyes, glittering with a color like the sky on a brisk winter morning. Mesmerized by their clarity, she was taken by surprise when she felt his lips against hers. Abruptly, her senses shifted from the visual to the tactile, from a universe of crisp blueness to a world of soft touch. His mouth was moving, searching, circling, tasting, lingering, and then moving again, landing gently and then more and more deeply.

One by one, the objects in the room seemed to disappear, then the door, the walls, the ceiling -- they all fell away into darkness, into oblivion. Nothing remained but sensations -- the slow brush of her scarf as it loosened and unwound from her neck; the wetness of his tongue as it outlined her jugular; the firm pressure of his hands as he grasped the small of her back to pull her against him; the tight stitches of his sweater as she ran her fingers along his shoulders and down his spine; the sharp edge of his belt buckle as it dug into her stomach; the surprising hardness of his thigh as it pressed against her more yielding one. Even these began to merge together into a single focused awareness -- not of self, not of surroundings, but of a hunger that emerged from somewhere beyond the bounds of consciousness -- powerful, primeval, consuming.

Eventually, rationality departed completely, and she spun into a place where perception came in disjointed flashes -- where things simply happened, with no how, or why, or even who.

Where clothes were removed and hastily discarded, dropping silently to the floor.

Where limbs entwined and interlocked, sliding and moving in smooth friction.

Where skin pressed against skin, growing hot and beaded with sweat.

Where flesh stung, grazed by nails and teeth, and then was soothed by moist lips.

Where hands alternately caressed and clutched, then clasped together, gripping with a ferocious strength.

Where hips united in motion, driving forward in a jagged rhythm of need.

Where sighs grew into gasps, and gasps grew into groans. Where names were whispered and then called out in rising fervor.

All these things seized her consciousness in turn, driving all else out. There was no Section, no mission, no torture or prisons, no inner voice or guilt. There was only an act of love -- no separate actors, no existence beyond it.

No present, no past, no future.

No life and no death.

No secrets, no betrayals.

And no lies.

* * *

Even after she left, Madeline's presence continued to haunt the room. Paul stared at the ceiling, still dazed, unable to comprehend, much less describe, what had just happened.

Their lovemaking had been intensely intimate, perhaps more than ever, and yet at the same time completely distant. Even as they burned together as a single entity, she seemed a million miles away -- embracing her had been like possessing a ghost: she was there, and yet she was not. He found it strangely, almost eerily erotic -- and deeply satisfying. Like an addict withdrawing a needle, he was already craving more -- another fix, a higher dose.

Fortunately, he would have that dose soon. And often. As often as he could arrange it, at least. When he told her that he would find her in Paris, he had been uncertain how she would react. But then her face had lit up with a look of raw joy -- before she struggled to bring her reaction back under control -- and he had known that he had reached the right decision. Had she responded otherwise, he would have discarded the idea immediately, even at the cost of a shattered heart.

Of course, he had phrased it as if it were his decision. Asked for her opinion, she would have denied herself everything -- so he freed her from making that choice. He would take responsibility for their relationship -- and the blame, if any. And there might very well be blame. For she had been right -- while nothing in Section One's rules prohibited fraternization, _per se_, Section Two was a very different story. Undercover operatives, by necessity, had to be scrupulous in avoiding _any_ behavior -- or associations -- that might betray their identities. By 'showing up at her doorstep,' as she put it, he could thus be placing her life in danger -- from the KGB, if they figured things out, or from Section itself, if they found out how reckless she was being.

The KGB could be dealt with, he decided, by inventing his own alter ego -- renting a cheap apartment near hers, pretending to be an ordinary neighbor. He had created enough fake identities for missions that another one shouldn't be a problem. And he doubted that they scrutinized her life that carefully anyway -- they simply didn't have _that_ many resources, especially not to check on someone who had already been working for them -- without incident -- for years. Nor did he think that Ohanian would be a serious problem. Paul would stay away from the university -- the most likely place he might run into the man -- and make sure that -- in public, anyway -- he wore an adequate disguise.

It was the Section itself that posed the biggest threat. How carefully did they watch their undercover operatives? He had no idea what the protocols were in Section Two, much less how to circumvent them. He suspected that there might be surveillance of some sort -- listening devices at her apartment, something like that. But it would be too risky for them to have her followed -- at least on a regular basis -- the watchers themselves might be spotted and risk blowing her cover.

Well, a handful of listening devices could be deceived. He would have to convince Section's listeners -- just like the KGB -- that her new boyfriend was some harmless neighbor, clueless about her more sinister activities, with whom she was having a shallow, superficial fling. It could be fun -- they could make up some sort of code, saying something innocuous, meaning something else. It would be a game -- like playacting. She might even enjoy the sheer complexity of it all -- pretending to fool him, but in reality deceiving someone else. Layers of deception, falsehoods within falsehoods -- yes, that was probably right up her alley. They would just have to remember to call each other by their alter egos' names -- at _all_ times. That might be a challenge, he thought, chuckling to himself.

He turned his eyes away from the ceiling and looked across the room at the door. There was one thing still troubling him -- courtesy of Madeline's parting words. They had been warnings, whispered to him with a farewell caress. The first -- to keep Stephen a secret -- made perfect sense. He couldn't explain his sudden recollection of his son without first admitting to his memory problem -- and that was something that he resolved Section would never know. It was the second warning that chilled him.

"Be careful of George," she had whispered, her expression intense and worried. "He's a danger to you."

And that was all. She refused to elaborate, to describe what she knew or how, but the look on her face had told him enough. George wanted him dead. It was something he had suspected all along -- but how Madeline could have known it was a mystery.

As he pondered both the warning and his potential response, the door opened and Egran appeared. He wore a long, heavy coat and carried another on his arm.

Paul stood up, caught the coat as Egran tossed it to him, and slipped it on.

"Are you ready?" Egran asked.

"If you are."

"Good. Let's go."

* * *

Running late, Madeline hurried into the kitchen and grabbed her purse from the counter. Turning to exit the room and rush to her morning appointment, she spotted a dark blue jacket hanging on the back of a chair. A man's jacket. Paul's jacket. He had forgotten it when he departed earlier that morning -- both of them having overslept, waking in a panic -- with him running late for a briefing back at Section One.

_We're getting careless,_ she thought, snatching up the jacket to hang it in a closet.

In the four months since she had returned from the Ukraine, Paul had come to see her at least once a week -- sometimes, when his mission schedule slowed, even more often than that. She knew it was foolish, knew it was reckless, but had been unable to turn him away. Each time he had managed to outdo himself with his grand, romantic gestures -- showing up with flowers, gifts, and, the night before, a hired carriage; each time she pretended to scoff, but secretly adored it.

So far, their elaborate pretense -- complete with a false identity and their own code language -- had protected them -- her handlers had noted the appearance of the new man in her life, but without comment -- and without any instructions to stop seeing him. They seemed satisfied that this relationship was yet another in the series of meaningless -- and short-lived -- encounters she had developed the habit of engaging in. If things continued for much longer, however -- as she knew Paul wanted it to, as she wanted herself -- the Section might take more of an interest.

It was that potential for increased scrutiny that worried her. They would have to be more careful from now on, or disaster would strike. She certainly couldn't let their time together adversely affect his duties back at Section One, as had nearly happened this morning. Perhaps stricter rules were in order, maybe even scaling back the frequency of his visits.

As she headed for the closet, jacket in hand, the telephone rang shrilly. She stopped, unsure whether to answer it and risk running even further behind, but then picked it up. Answering breathlessly, she listened to the bland voice of her handler, commanding her to go to the usual meeting place that afternoon.

She frowned. "Is there something wrong? You usually meet me toward the end of the month."

"You won't be meeting with me."

"Oh. George wants to see me, then?"

"No. Adrian does."


	13. Chapter 13

# 1999

With a careful snip, Madeline removed the unwanted sprout that had sprung rebelliously from the side of the juniper. She leaned forward, examining the other plants intently, searching for signs that their inner nature threatened to make them grow in uncontrolled directions.

They were such small things to need such constant attention. But without it, without her unrelenting scrutiny, they would quickly attempt to revert to their natural state, to develop in the way that they wanted, instead of the way that was best.

It was an unending struggle, requiring repeated maintenance. But she attended to them faithfully, patiently, every day. After all, she knew -- even if they didn't -- that they were trapped in a limited universe. In such an artificial environment, natural impulses were dangerous -- sometimes even deadly. And so she made sure all such impulses were stopped, cut off.

During the Markali mission, however, she had been too distracted to tend to them as she should. Neglected, all of them had subtly rebelled, each one showing hints of unruly desires. Of wants, needs, and instincts that, if expressed, would weaken them.

How had she allowed this to happen? Her mind had been elsewhere -- wandering, lost somewhere in the past. Unacceptable. The past was useful only for the lessons that could be drawn from it -- mistakes to be avoided, behavior to improve, experiences and patterns against which to compare the present and from which to predict the future. Valuable for that, certainly, but nothing more. _Revisiting_ the past was a frivolous indulgence -- a failing of people with nothing better to do.

Even the present held only limited value. Nothing in the present could be changed -- only observed. It was critical to be aware of it, to note every passing detail, but there its use ended. She had long since learned that it was only the future that truly mattered -- the future, alone, could be controlled, even if only to a degree. And so she inhabited the future -- living in a world of sims, probabilities, contingencies and plans. With these, the future could be anticipated, influenced, channeled, molded, narrowed -- at times even avoided altogether. The future had meaning; the future offered purpose. The future, therefore, was precious -- for while it contained both threats and promises, it never held regrets.

She lifted the leaves of the last plant on the shelf and inspected them closely. They seemed healthy enough. She relaxed, feeling a clarity of mind she hadn't experienced in weeks. Her ability to concentrate had finally returned. Now, once again, the plants were pristine and perfect -- placed back on the path of what they could become, if guided properly.

Finished, she straightened and closed the glass cabinet door, locking it securely. She frowned slightly as the pointlessness of that practice occurred to her. It made no sense to lock the cabinet -- there was no one likely to steal or harm the plants inside. No one likely even to want to look at them, aside from herself. Yet she did it -- indeed, felt compelled to do it -- just the same. It was almost as if she were locking the plants in instead of keeping any intruder out.

She smiled to herself at the irrationality of the habit. Someday, she told herself, she would leave the cabinet unlocked.

Just not yet.

* * *

* * *

# 1980

After smoothing out her skirt with unconscious nervousness, Madeline reached for the door and rapped lightly. Stepping back, she waited, staring absentmindedly at the gilt letters on the door. Of course, Dr. Etienne Petit, whose name the letters spelled, didn't exist. His 'clinique de chiropratique' had served as the meeting place for the Parisian undercover operatives and their handlers for the past four years.

She had visited this office untold times, but never before with such a feeling of dread. It had built steadily during the long metro ride across the city, surging sharply as she walked the two blocks from the station to the building that housed the office, virtually paralyzing her as she climbed the creaking flight of stairs to the third floor. Now, she stood, motionless, awaiting entry. To receive a sentence of death, she had no doubt.

By consorting -- in public -- with another operative, she had engaged in a gross violation of her cover. It was inexcusable. Unforgiveable. Idiotic. And now, she would pay the price. She couldn't even be angry with her executioners -- for being so foolish, she deserved to die.

By the time the door finally opened, she was completely numb -- so numb, in fact, that she didn't even recognize that it was Adrian herself who answered and ushered her into the room. It was only when the door closed and she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder that her senses slowly began to return to her. Adrian stood beside her; George and another man waited several feet away. Three people, just to meet with her? A tribunal, perhaps. She hadn't expected anything quite so formal.

She looked at each person one by one, struck by the contrast in their expressions. Adrian appeared relaxed, almost friendly. George seemed vaguely nervous. The other man -- dressed, oddly, in a denim jacket and bandana -- looked petrified.

"Hello, Madeline." Adrian's tone was gracious, as was the smile on her face. "Thank you for coming to join us."

"Hello Adrian," she replied respectfully. She looked at George and nodded. "George."

"This is Walter, one of your fellow operatives." Adrian gestured toward the other man. "He works with me in Section One."

"Pleased to meet you, Walter."

Walter nodded silently, his face so pale Madeline thought he might faint.

"Please, dear, sit down," Adrian said.

Madeline reached for one of the heavy chairs at the long conference room table, but stopped as George rushed to pull another one out for her. Smiling in thanks, she sat, but then quickly frowned, blinking, when the sunlight from the windows hit her directly in the eyes. While she shifted in the chair to try to find a position where she could avoid the glare, the others took their own seats -- Adrian to her immediate right, at the head of the table, George and Walter on the other side.

Adrian folded her hands atop the table and regarded Madeline with surprising warmth. "Well, Madeline, we've never really had the opportunity to get to know one another. I'm afraid I've let George monopolize your time."

Madeline smiled politely. "I'm sure you're too busy to meet with every operative in the Sections."

Adrian shook her head. "Oh, but you're not just any operative. After all, you managed to rescue my top team leader from some rather dire circumstances. I owe you my thanks."

Madeline looked at Adrian carefully, cautiously, trying to detect any sign of insincerity, any hidden threat. But she saw nothing but gratitude in the woman's face.

"Not at all," Madeline answered, relaxing faintly. "I was just doing my job."

"Indeed." Adrian raised an eyebrow. "I'd say you did quite an outstanding job. Not only helping Paul Wolfe escape unscathed, but recruiting Egran Petrosian at the same time. All on your own initiative. Very impressive."

"Thank you." She took a deep, slow breath in relief. Perhaps she had jumped to the wrong conclusion regarding the purpose of the meeting -- instead of being disciplined, it seemed she was being commended. She had been overly paranoid -- they might know nothing of her meetings with Paul. They _had_ been extremely careful, after all.

"By the way," Adrian asked, leaning forward, her tone casually curious, "how did you manage to recruit Petrosian? He seemed surprisingly willing to switch sides."

Madeline's eyes darted briefly toward George as she remembered how his messenger had blown her cover and precipitated events, but then, controlling herself, she looked back at Adrian.

"I seduced him," she answered calmly.

"Did you? And that's all it took?" Adrian sat back again, an amused expression filling her face. "You must be _quite_ talented. We'll have to be sure to put your remarkable skills to the proper use in the future."

A chill settled over Madeline as she realized that the other woman was mocking her.

"It seems you're an even more extraordinary operative than I'd realized," Adrian continued, no longer bothering to conceal her sarcasm, which sliced like ice through the warm air of the room. "Of course, George has been trying to tell me that for years. I see I should have listened."

Bewildered at the turn the conversation was taking, Madeline looked across the table at George. His expression was odd, almost pained -- a mixture of sympathy and embarrassment. He quickly looked down at the table, avoiding her eyes.

Adrian smiled beatifically. "There's just one problem."

Madeline braced herself. _Here it comes._

"I think you know what it is."

Of course she knew what it was. But she hadn't spent years as an interrogator only to fall into such an obvious trap.

She forced an innocent expression. "You'll have to be more specific."

Adrian nodded. "Of course." She turned to Walter. "Walter? Why don't you tell Madeline what you saw?"

Walter stared at the polished wood of the conference table, looking as if he might be sick. He could barely speak; his voice hardly rose  
above a whisper.

"Paul Wolfe has been surreptitiously--" he paused and cleared his throat nervously.

Madeline's muscles tensed as she watched him struggle for words.

"--going to observe his son, Stephen," he finished.

Madeline blinked, completely stunned.

"How is it, do you think," Adrian asked sweetly, "that he's managed to find a son he isn't even supposed to remember that he has?"

Madeline was speechless, so frozen with shock that she wasn't sure if she could even form a coherent sentence, much less explain herself.

"I thought you might have some insight that you could share with us," Adrian continued. "After all, aren't you supposed to be somewhat of an expert in these matters?"

As Adrian watched her intently, she felt as if she were being circled by a bird of prey. It was dizzying, disorienting, and completely terrifying. She opened her mouth but couldn't seem to put words together.

"I see you're having some difficulty speaking right now. Perhaps I can be of some help." Adrian smiled once again. Her words were scrupulously polite, even kind, but her manner conveyed a lofty disdain, like that of the lady of the manor addressing a scullery maid caught stealing pieces of the tea service. "As I'm sure you're aware, we went to a great deal of trouble to make Paul Wolfe forget that he ever had a son -- to ensure that there would be no distraction that might interfere with his dedication to the Section. And yet now, years later -- and coincidentally right after he meets you -- he miraculously remembers Stephen -- and what's worse, has been secretly watching him."

The smile suddenly vanished, replaced by a look of cold fury. Coming from someone so delicate-looking, so fragile, even, the intensity of Adrian's anger was all the more frightening.

"Now, all I ask from you is one thing -- an explanation as to why I shouldn't have you cancelled this instant."

There was no explanation to offer. And for a moment, Madeline didn't care. Let them cancel her. But then, slowly, as her terror gave way to a dull acceptance of her impending demise, it occurred to her. She could tell them the truth. Or most of the truth, mixed with one critical lie. She swallowed nervously, but then jutted her chin out in defiance.

"Because I helped you eliminate a distraction, not the other way around."

Adrian frowned; her eyes narrowed slightly. "Explain," she ordered coldly.

"His memories were starting to return on their own," Madeline explained, doing her best to control her voice, to keep it from wavering. "For the moment, they were limited to nightmares and a vague sense that something was wrong. But if I hadn't intervened, he eventually would have remembered _everything_ \-- including what Section One had done to him." She gave Adrian a knowing look. "I didn't think that would be in anyone's interest."

Adrian studied Madeline, and her expression shifted, subtly, from hostile to wary but intrigued. "Go on."

"So I put him through a process that reinforced his programming. I eradicated the memories thoroughly, eliminated all of the problems that were causing the nightmares, and made everything as good as new -- perhaps even stronger than before. With one difference."

"Stephen."

Madeline nodded. "Memory modification doesn't work perfectly. Strong memories -- the ones with the greatest emotional significance -- simply won't be erased. Not permanently, anyway. At least not without causing unacceptable levels of brain damage as a side effect."

"I see." Adrian frowned again, but this time it was in thought.

"He was going to remember Stephen sooner or later, no matter what was done to him. So I didn't even try to eliminate those memories. Instead, I allowed him to remember, but gave him a plausible cover story to explain the memory loss. One that didn't implicate the Section."

"Which is?"

"That his memory was temporarily impaired by trauma from his Vietnam experience."

"And he believed that?"

"Completely." Madeline paused. "I understand you're concerned about distractions, but many years have passed since he was recruited. He understands he can never have Stephen back in his life."

Adrian nodded slowly. She no longer looked hostile, or even suspicious.

"As for the other memories," Madeline continued, "I've ensured they won't return."

"What other memories?" A look of confusion passed across Adrian's face.

"Of the POW camp. He still believes he only spent fifteen days in captivity."

"Oh, that," Adrian said dismissively. "We modified those memories because so much of Phan's questioning focused on trying to make Paul guilty for leaving Stephen behind. But now that he's remembered Stephen, that hardly matters anymore. You needn't have bothered erasing those memories."

"That's the only reason you made him forget the seven years?"

"Yes, of course. Why?"

"I thought...." She paused, about to mention the man whom Paul had killed -- the man she had assumed worked for the Sections. But before she could do so, she caught George's eye. He was looking at her with such intensity, with such focused concentration, that his gaze nearly scalded her. She stared for several seconds, unable to look away. Then, slowly, covertly -- and gravely -- he shook his head.

George's quiet signal threw her into complete confusion. Trying to compose herself, she shifted her focus to Walter, hoping that looking at someone neutral would give her time to think. But the motion of her head brought her eyes back into the path of the sunbeam shining into the room; it blinded her with a searing flash of light, making her feel not only disoriented, but also strangely vulnerable. As if she were in a spotlight. Or a rifle scope.

With horror, she remembered that George had been very quick to make sure that she sat in that particular seat. Right in line of sight through the window.

Her mouth suddenly dry, she turned back to Adrian. "No. Of course that would be the reason. I don't know what I was thinking."

She glanced back at George, heart pounding. He nodded and smiled.

Adrian examined her for several moments.

"So you did this to protect the Section?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you keep it secret from us?" Adrian's voice grew faintly sharper.

"Because what I did was unauthorized," Madeline answered, grasping at the most plausible reason she could think of. "Because I didn't know who had been in charge of the original modification, and I didn't want to be seen as accusing them of incompetence."

Adrian laughed softly. "Well, it just so happens that the person in charge is sitting right here. George, are you offended by the fact that Madeline had to go back and fix some problems?"

"Not at all," he answered, his tone richly gracious. He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair with a relaxed posture.

"You see?" Adrian smiled. "You should have come to us right away. Next time, I expect that you'll do so."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good." Adrian took a deep breath. "Well," she said, her voice once again warm, "this has been most enlightening. And I must say, I'm quite relieved. For a moment, I thought you had interfered out of some sort of righteous anger over the fact that Paul had been separated from his wife and son. But how silly of me -- I forgot with whom I was dealing. You're not exactly sentimental about loving families, are you dear?"

This final insult caught Madeline completely off guard. She tried to stifle her anger but failed, her face flushing with bitter rage. And then she saw it -- the look of triumph on Adrian's face -- and realized she had been deliberately baited. Tested. And she had failed. Her anger had given her away, had made it clear that she had indeed restored Paul's memory of Stephen for personal reasons, not out of any regard for the Section's interests. In fact, she had lied about Paul remembering Stephen -- ironically, it was the one memory that had not been showing up in his nightmares, had showed no signs of ever returning. And now Adrian knew.

Adrian looked at Madeline imperiously. "Madeline, Walter, thank you for your time. You're both dismissed."

* * *

Adrian watched Madeline and Walter depart in silence, intrigued but disturbed by the exchange that had just taken place. When the door closed, she rose from the table and strolled to the window, looking out at the bustling sidewalk below, trying to gather her thoughts.

Madeline's story -- told in that silken tone that she seemed to employ so effortlessly -- had been completely plausible and utterly convincing. For a few moments, Adrian had even believed it. But then, on instinct, she had tested the young woman, pushing the one button that Adrian knew was likely to provoke a response. And with a single look of shock and outrage, Madeline had betrayed herself.

So Madeline was lying. About how much, Adrian couldn't be sure. About her reason for restoring Paul's memory of his son, certainly. Perhaps about everything. Not that Adrian could prove it -- there was no real evidence. She simply knew.

The question was whether the lies had any real significance. That they meant that Madeline -- of all people -- had formed an emotional attachment to a fellow operative was beyond any doubt. A great surprise, to be sure. But aside from that, was there any real import?

Madeline _was_ correct about one thing -- enough time had passed that Stephen no longer posed the same threat to Paul's loyalty. Indeed, in the months since he learned about his son, he had made no effort to meet with him, strictly limiting himself to furtive, distant observation. Whatever Madeline's motive, it seemed that being exposed to Stephen hadn't done Paul any lasting harm.

However, there was one other, more worrying question: had being exposed to _Madeline_ done Paul any lasting harm? Emotional attachments, Adrian knew, could go both ways. And what would be more natural than for Paul to form a bond with the person who had rescued him from almost certain death? But that, if the case, would be an unmitigated disaster.

Adrian could think of no one, in any of the Sections, who would be a worse influence on Paul than Madeline. As necessary as people like Madeline were to the continued functioning of the Sections -- to the performance of some of the uglier tasks that fell to them -- such people could never be allowed anywhere near a position -- or person -- with influence. Their amorality was a poison; they needed constant monitoring and restrictions lest they corrupt everything they touched. For Paul to be exposed to -- or worse, influenced by -- such a person could undermine everything Adrian had hoped to achieve by training and mentoring him. Indeed, the possibilities were almost too dreadful to contemplate. Paul's drive and ambition, combined with Madeline's ability to objectify almost anyone, could turn the Sections into something unspeakable. From Adrian's hand-picked standard bearer for the future, Paul could instead become the destroyer of everything she had created.

This could not be allowed. But how to prevent it? The obvious answer -- to keep them as far apart as possible -- had an undeniable appeal. But there were also significant risks. Kept apart too many years, they might idealize each other -- and then, once Adrian had passed on power to Paul, reunite, their attachment stronger than ever. Or even worse, a forcible separation might provoke active resistance or even rebellion. Indeed, knowing Paul's character, such a reaction was more than likely.

Thus the other answer -- the counter-intuitive one -- might be the better choice. Instead of separating them, she could unite them -- but in circumstances that would drive them apart emotionally. After all, if, as the saying went, familiarity bred contempt, perhaps they needed to spend some time together. Time under Adrian's supervision and control.

Turning away from the window, Adrian looked at George. He, too, had risen from his chair and stood, watching her carefully, as he aimlessly toyed with his watch.

"I must admit, she showed a great deal of creativity and initiative," she said.

"Yes, quite," George answered. He looked unsure of himself, as if he weren't certain what Adrian wanted to hear. But he then straightened his posture, seemingly growing in confidence. "You see? That's what I meant when I said we needed operatives whose ambition is for the Sections, not for themselves. She was looking out for our best interests."

"Oh, I agree, her ambition isn't for herself. That much is quite clear."

She paused, glancing out the window again, and then looked back at George.

"That professor she's been reporting on -- he's getting a bit advanced in years, isn't he?" she asked.

"Not so much that, but he is ill. It makes him seem older than he is."

"Do you expect him to live much longer?"

"Not more than two or three years."

"What do you plan to do with her when he dies? Assign her to another mission?"

George frowned, looking surprised at the question. "No, actually. I was thinking I might use her to help manage things internally at Two or Three. She's very organized -- I think she'd be of great assistance."

"When he dies, I want her transferred to One," Adrian said bluntly.

"To One?" He raised his eyebrows, unable to conceal his shock. "I didn't think you liked her."

"Likes and dislikes really have nothing to do with it," she said. "I think she'd be an outstanding profiler. And she might be able to modernize some of our interrogation practices. I'd even be willing to give her a staff and budget."

"I see." George nodded, but he didn't look particularly happy. "It's your call, Adrian. But I think she's better suited for the other Sections."

Adrian smiled. "Well, we'll find out, won't we?"

* * *

Madeline walked rapidly down the hallway, uneasy with the way the meeting with Adrian had ended, but relieved that it was at least over. And that she was alive after all. For the moment, at least.

She had been caught in a lie -- and then simply dismissed. Not knowing her punishment -- and she was certain there would be one -- was almost worse than receiving the sentence right then and there. Left to her imagination, it loomed menacingly from the shadows, waiting to strike when she least expected it.

And then there was the question of what would happen to Paul -- and to Stephen. Would they stop Paul from seeing him? Probably. Picking up her pace, she silently cursed herself. Her attempt to help Paul, to give him a gift, would instead cause him more pain. It would have been better for him never to have known about Stephen than to remember and then lose him. Foolishly, she had tried to make things right, to fix the past -- but had only succeeded in ruining the future. She would never make that mistake again.

She had nearly reached the stairway, nearly escaped to the outside, when behind her she heard footsteps running to catch up with her. She ignored them. Her mind was now focused on short-term goals: stairs, street, metro, home. People, including the one running after her, were simply too much to deal with at the moment.

"Madeline," Walter called out breathlessly.

She kept walking, starting down the stairs. Just as she was about to take the first step, she felt him catch her arm.

"Look, Madeline," he said, pulling her to a halt, "I am _so_ sorry."

She turned and looked back at him without expression. "You have nothing to apologize for." She started to move away, but again he stopped her.

"Oh, yes I do." A mixture of guilt and indignation twisted his face. "This isn't right."

She continued to stand, silent, waiting for him to let her go, not wanting to hear what he had to say. Not wanting to hear anything. Just wanting to get away.

But he didn't let her go. Instead, he gulped, controlling himself, and began to speak.

"Ever since Paul came into the Section, I've been monitoring him," he explained. "They told me to make sure that he didn't come across anyone from his past -- not just Stephen, but others. They told me that if anyone recognized Paul, their life might be endangered. So I agreed and followed him around -- but I've hated myself ever since. And this -- what I just saw in there -- this is the last straw. No more spying for me. Ever."

Madeline looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. What did he want from her? Forgiveness? Absolution? He didn't know her, and he had no right to make any such demand.

Looking back at him, she spoke as coldly as possible. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I just wanted you to know." Walter sighed, shaking his head, his eyes brimming with tears. "I should never have told them about Paul going to watch Stephen. They were lying -- it didn't endanger Stephen at all. I should have just left things alone. I'm sorry. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I just had to say it."

For a moment, she felt a pang of sympathy. He was as much trapped by circumstance as she was; he, too, seemed to be eaten by guilt. Still, he was a stranger. She would not let him see that she was afraid, or vulnerable, or hurt.

"Don't apologize to me," she said blandly. "Whether Paul Wolfe sees his son or not isn't my concern."

Walter shook his head and rolled his eyes.

"Okay, look," he said. "You can use that 'I did everything for the good of the Section' crap all you like with George and Adrian. But I didn't just fall off the turnip truck, you know."

"What do you mean?" she asked, growing slightly apprehensive.

"I've been following the man around, remember?"

"Oh." Of course. The realization of what he meant hit her with dull ache in the pit of her stomach. They had taken so much care to deceive her surveillance -- but hadn't realized that he might be watched himself. He had been so sure that it wasn't Section One policy. But she should have known better.

"Yeah, that's right. I know all about his visits to you." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "And I haven't said a word about it to anyone. I've got a list of people he's not supposed to see -- and since you aren't on it, I figured it was none of George and Adrian's business."

A surge of gratitude swept over her -- briefly. Then a doubt arose.

"Are you the only one monitoring him?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. Probably not. I do have another job. It's not like I can tag after him twenty-four hours a day."

"And if someone else reports what we've been doing, he'll be disciplined, won't he?"

Walter looked reluctant to answer. "Probably," he admitted, after hesitating.

"Well, then, I'll have to end it," she said grimly.

He stared at her in shock. "What?"

"I am _not_ going to be his downfall."

"Don't say that." He squeezed her arm more tightly. "Look, I can help you hide it. I can help create enough diversions to cover his visits to you, as long as we work together. It's the least I can do after all of this."

How she wanted to say yes, to accept his help and be grateful, to grasp some happiness for herself. But she had learned her lesson. That kind of happiness could only be short-lived. She would not jeopardize the future -- or the vows she had made to herself -- for the sake of such a selfish, fleeting joy. Instead, she would consider the consequences and choose what was best. Happiness could be postponed -- as long as it took.

Her decision made, she took a deep breath. "No," she said.

"No?" he repeated, his tone incredulous.

"If I wanted your help, I would have asked for it," she said sharply. "If you want to assuage your guilt, use those diversions to allow him to continue observing his son. Don't waste them on me."

He stared at her, frowning, for several moments; he looked hurt by her words, confused by her coldness. Finally, sounding dubious, he spoke. "Okay, whatever you want."

Releasing her arm, he passed around her and started to head down the stairs. But then he paused.

"You know, I don't know you very well, but I hope you won't get offended if I give you some advice."

She shrugged and kept her face blank. "Go ahead."

"You've got to do something for yourself, too. If you deprive yourself of all pleasure, all joy, all human connections, this place is going to get you. It's going to eat you alive, and pretty soon there won't be any you left. There'll just be a shell, with nothing inside but the Section."

Calmly, she looked him directly in the eyes.

"What makes you think that's not what I want?"

An expression of horror and disbelief filled his face. "You can't mean that."

She regarded him wordlessly, unblinkingly.

"Jesus Christ," he said, shaking his head and disappearing down the stairs.

* * *

Departing the office, George closed the door behind him with a bit too much force. It slammed, and the sound echoed up and down the hallway, making him wince nervously. Adrian, still inside, would probably think him angry because she had turned down his invitation to join him for drinks. But it wasn't anger that boiled over inside of him -- it was anxious energy. He had dodged a dangerous bullet -- just barely.

Sighing, he turned away from the door to leave, but stopped short when he saw a figure at the other end of the hallway. It was Madeline, standing at the top of the stairs in a posture that looked almost forlorn. He raised his eyebrows in surprise at the sight -- it had been almost fifteen minutes since Adrian had dismissed Madeline and Walter from the meeting, and Madeline should have long since departed. Indeed, given the nature of that particular meeting, he would have expected her to flee the building with utmost haste. In her place, that's what he would have done.

Nevertheless, since she was there, it provided an opportunity. An opportunity to do something he should have done long before.

"Madeline," he called, starting toward her.

She turned to look at him and waited until he caught up to her. When he drew closer, he frowned in shock at her appearance. Her normally composed visage was marred with fatigue, and her eyes were heavy with something he couldn't quite identify. Sadness, perhaps, or resignation. Did she realize, he wondered, how close she had come to death? How he was poised, with just a motion of his head, to signal the sniper positioned across the street to send a bullet through her heart? He was certain that she did -- her evasion of Adrian's question, just in the nick of time, had demonstrated that she understood his warning. No wonder she looked dejected. Such a close encounter with mortality might tend to depress one's mood.

"I'm glad you're still here," he said, catching her by the elbow and steering her down the stairs. "There's a café around the corner -- let me buy you a coffee."

She nodded, but without much enthusiasm. "All right."

They descended the stairs and exited the building, emerging onto the sidewalk, which was lit with the late afternoon sun. Turning left, George stepped around a street vendor and his portable cookstand; Madeline followed dutifully alongside him.

As they walked the block to the café, George attempted to lighten the atmosphere with idle conversation -- a comment about the weather, a recommendation that Madeline see a new art exhibit, a question about the necklace she was wearing. Her responses were pleasant but forced, their interaction strained but polite.

Arriving at their destination, he gestured to a sidewalk table. They sat, gave the waiter their order, and then fell into an awkward silence. Arms folded, Madeline looked down at the table as if its well-worn texture were the most fascinating thing in the world.

George cleared his throat.

"You do realize, don't you," he said, with a casual tone that belied the seriousness of his words, "that you would have been killed had you started to describe what happened in that POW camp?"

She looked up sharply, her eyes full of restrained intensity.

"Yes," she answered and then swallowed rapidly. She kept her arms crossed tightly across her chest.

He shifted in the too-small wooden chair, crossing one leg over another and folding his hands in his lap. "Your death would have been easy enough to explain away -- an attempted assassination against Adrian by a terrorist with rather poor aim, and you the unfortunate innocent bystander who got in the way. Adrian wouldn't have ever suspected the truth."

Her eyes dropped again briefly, but then she looked back up with a faint look of defiance. "So why didn't you?"

"Kill you?"

She nodded.

"You demonstrated that it wasn't necessary." George gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I don't wish you any harm, you know. If you're intelligent enough to keep quiet, you have nothing to fear from me."

Unfolding her arms, Madeline leaned forward as if she were about to speak again, but pulled back as the waiter approached with their coffee. The young man took his time, joking and grinning as he set the cups down; both Madeline and George forced smiles and laughter. But as soon as the waiter turned his back, Madeline's smile vanished. Frowning, she added sugar to her coffee and stirred deliberately, and then set the spoon down on the saucer with a loud clink.

"That man Paul Wolfe killed -- I thought he worked for the Sections. But that wasn't it, was it?"

"No, he didn't work for the Sections." George paused, blinking. "He worked for me."

Madeline said nothing in response, but he could see the question in her eyes. A question that, if he wanted to enlist her help, it was now time to answer.

He took a sip of his coffee, set it down, and then shifted again in the uncomfortable chair.

"You see, Adrian and I don't always see eye to eye. About several things."

He glanced away briefly, reflecting on just how many such things there were, but then returned his gaze to her face.

"One of the areas where we have a difference of opinion involves recruiting," he explained. "Adrian believes that good operatives are born, not made. She wants to recruit people in her own image -- zealots, moralists. People with strong views and deeply held principles. But I know better." He leaned forward, placing his forearms on the table. "What we need are people who believe in nothing. People who can be molded -- who can be trained to be loyal to the organization, and to the organization alone. People like you."

Madeline arched an eyebrow at his last remark, but kept silent. She reached for her coffee cup and slowly began to finger the handle.

"Adrian has had her way with Section One," he continued. "And perhaps that's for the best. But she's left the others -- especially Three -- to me." He leaned back again, relaxing slightly. "Now, Section Three, as you know, is an organization of assassins. By its nature, it requires operatives without moral qualms -- ideally, without the capability for independent thought whatsoever. Robots who follow orders. And a number of years ago, I found the perfect source of such operatives." He smiled sadly. "The trouble was, it was a source that Adrian wouldn't have approved of. And so I never told her. I lied about where I was finding those men."

Madeline's eyes widened, and she took a long sip of her coffee.

"I found some freelance recruiters, of sorts," George said, picking up his spoon and playing with it idly. "They traveled around the world, picking out candidates for me. And as it turned out, the best all came from the same place -- the POW camps in Vietnam. All we had to do was pay a modest price per head, and the Vietnamese were happy to hand them over, no questions asked. They didn't even know who they were handing the men over to -- but I doubt they really cared, to be honest." He frowned in thought. "Adrian would have had no objection to recruiting from those camps, _per se_. But she wouldn't have liked the type of POW I selected. You see, they were all men who had broken under torture. Men with military training and combat experience, but who had been crushed psychologically."

He set the spoon down and looked Madeline directly in the eye.

"Those men were -- and still are -- my best assassins. They'll do anything -- and I mean _anything_ \-- without hesitation, without question. Of course, the war eventually ended, and I've had to develop new sources, but I still use the lessons that I learned then -- to get the best operatives, choose those who are weak, or disturbed, or troubled somehow, and expose them to violence."

A faint expression -- maybe distaste, maybe apprehension -- filled her face. "Is that how you pick all of your candidates?"

George chuckled. "You mean, is that how I picked you?" When she didn't reply, he smiled. "Do you really want to know the answer to that question?"

She looked down at the table, her expression a mixture of anger and shame.

He took a deep breath. "In any event, my recruiting efforts were going quite well, except in one camp. There, one of the POWs kept on interfering -- keeping my recruiters from properly identifying the weak ones. And then -- even worse -- he killed one of the recruiters. Needless to say, I decided that camp was too much trouble, and so we declined to do any further business there. It didn't really matter -- the other camps were just as productive. I wouldn't have given it another thought -- until the unthinkable happened."

"The unthinkable," Madeline murmured. George could see from the mildly nauseated look on her face that she knew exactly what was coming.

"Yes." George laughed bitterly, remembering. "One day, Adrian thrust a file at me, saying she had found the perfect operative to succeed her at Section One. You see, she had been paying the Vietnamese camp officials, too." He sighed. "I don't think I need to tell you who that operative was."

She shook her head silently.

"You can imagine my dilemma," he said. "Section Three was full of men he had been imprisoned with for years. What if he recognized one of them? And mentioned it to Adrian? It would make things very unpleasant. To say the least."

He took another sip of his coffee. It had grown lukewarm; with a scowl, he set it down.

"I tried to persuade her not to recruit him, but she wouldn't listen. I told her he had strong family ties; she told me to break them. And then it occurred to me. The best way to break his ties to his family -- especially to his son -- was to manipulate his memories. Why not make him forget his years in the POW camp at the same time?"

Madeline nodded slowly. "I see."

"And so I brought out Phan, and found Willie Kane, and with some of our psychological experts, we created alternate memories. I gave Adrian some excuse as to why it had to be done, and she never questioned it. We let him keep some recollections of his wife -- they had known each other since childhood, so it was impractical to make him forget her altogether. But it was easy enough to program him to think she looked like one of our operatives, and have that operative pose for surveillance that would persuade him to hate her. The son and the seven years, however, we erased entirely, and replaced with an alternate history." He shrugged. "Maybe not quite as vivid as the real thing, but good enough to be persuasive."

"For a time," she corrected.

"Precisely," he said, nodding. "For a while, it seemed to work. But then problems started cropping up. He was acting strangely, and -- just as you later confirmed -- my experts told me he might be recovering his memories. So I decided that the only safe thing would be to have him dead. Of course, I couldn't just kill him -- it had to be something that wouldn't arouse Adrian's suspicion. A death during a mission, for example."

Madeline frowned and glanced away uncomfortably.

"When he was captured by the Soviets, I thought I had been saved. I was sure he would be dead and my worries over. And if you had followed protocol instead of trying to be creative, he would be," he said sharply.

She straightened her posture and hardened her expression. "Thanks to my intervention, he'll never remember those seven years or any of those fellow prisoners. I've eliminated any threat he might have posed to you. There's no longer any reason to want him to die."

He raised his eyebrows, taken aback by her sudden vehemence. "Oh, yes there is. Perhaps not for me -- you might be right about him no longer being a danger. But for you, there's a very good reason to want him dead."

Growing pale, she asked, "For me?"

"Yes, for you." He paused. How to explain this? Perhaps it would be best to start at the beginning. "I hand-picked you to be recruited. Do you know why?"

"No." She shook her head.

"Why, to become my successor, of course."

She frowned for a few moments, puzzled. "As second-in-command?"

He laughed and leaned back in his chair. "Good heavens, no. My aspirations run higher than that. And yours should, too." He smiled and shook his head. "No, I plan to run the Sections one day. And if you make the right choices, you can, too -- eventually."

"But what about Adrian?"

He picked up his spoon again and turned it over, studying it intently. "Ah, well," he said, hesitating slightly, "Adrian's a superb leader -- a genius, really. She's an idealist -- a visionary. The perfect person to start an organization like this, to build it up from nothing -- but not the best to lead it into the future, to allow it to mature."

He set the spoon down and looked back at her confidently.

"For that," he said, "one needs a pragmatist. Someone comfortable with ambiguity instead of bright lines, someone capable of establishing rules, routines, bureaucracies. Someone like me. And you."

Madeline said nothing, but she shifted in her chair, her expression growing vaguely uncomfortable.

George leaned forward, lowering his voice for emphasis. "Paul Wolfe represents Adrian's way -- the road we don't want to go down. Adrian recruited him to prevent people like you from taking over. He's your _rival_, not your ally. By helping him, you only hurt yourself. Now do you understand?"

He hoped that she did, but instead she looked as if she had been slapped in the face. "I--" she started, but then stopped, looking away for a few seconds. She closed her eyes briefly, and then returned her gaze toward him, her expression again calm. "I see. That's very interesting."

He frowned, unsure how to read her reaction. She seemed so noncommittal. But of course. She didn't understand why he was telling her this, didn't realize that they could help each other -- that they _needed_ each other's help, in fact. He had to explain that, too.

"We've very nearly reached the time when Adrian will no longer be an asset to this organization," he said slowly, drawing out the words. "When she'll be a hindrance to its future growth. When that time comes, I intend to take over."

A look of utter shock filled her face. "You're going to overthrow her?"

"No. You will."

She looked dumbstruck, as well she should. He smiled.

"I cannot be seen to be involved directly," he explained, shaking his head in emphasis. "You see," he paused, somewhat uncomfortable at sharing this information, but realizing it was necessary, "Adrian and I have known each other many years. I … I want to make certain that no harm comes to her. It would kill her to know that I was involved in taking away her proudest creation. And so she mustn't know."

He paused, gathering his thoughts. "The rebellion must therefore come from the ranks," he said firmly, "from disgruntled subordinates. But at the end of the day, I'll be in charge of a new layer, a bureaucratic structure in between the Sections and the people who fund us. I'll depose her, but from behind the scenes. And by helping me -- by being my proxy, in effect -- you can benefit."

At this, Madeline's mask completely slipped off; her expression grew openly astonished. "You care for her, and yet you'd do this to her?"

George frowned. How could he explain this to someone who had never been in his position? To someone so young that she had never had to make such hard choices, never had to hurt someone she loved?

"It's for her own good, and the good of the Sections," he said intently, not quite sure which one of them he was trying to convince. "I _cannot_ allow her to destroy what we've created, or to destroy herself, just because she can't adapt to changing times."

Madeline regarded him quietly, her eyes dark mirrors reflecting back at him. Did she understand after all, or was her expression an accusation? He couldn't tell.

"Sometimes," he said sadly, "the highest form of loyalty is betrayal. But then you wouldn't understand that, would you?"

In response, she simply blinked and looked away.

* * *

* * *

# 1999

Paul sat uncomfortably in his car, observing Corinne being taken -- completely broken and destroyed -- into the mental hospital where she would spend the rest of her days. Watching her, knowing that he was responsible, pained him, ate at him with guilt. But it was not just because of Corinne's fate, horrific as that was -- it was also because of what he knew his actions looked like.

He knew what George and Madeline -- who was he kidding, probably the entire Section -- thought. They had made it unmistakably clear that they believed his real target was Corinne, not her husband. The unfortunate thing, the thing that tore at him inside, was that they were right. Just not for the reason they thought.

For years, his sources had been telling him that Corinne, of all people, had terrorist affiliations, that she was the one behind her husband's growing flirtation with such groups. At first, he refused to believe it. But over time, the reports had accumulated to the point where he could no longer deny the implications. Even then, however, he had ignored it. Because of his prior relationship to her, because he _had_ loved her, once, he simply couldn't bring himself to hurt her -- despite her later betrayal, and despite his outrage at what she had done to Stephen. It was a line he wouldn't, no, couldn't, cross -- regardless of duty, regardless of logic.

It was pathetic, really. He preached to his operatives daily how they couldn't allow personal issues to affect their performance -- and yet, again and again, it was his own biggest failing. After all these years, he still hadn't been able to change that. Maybe it couldn't be changed; maybe he hadn't tried hard enough. Whatever the case, it had almost led to disaster. When he learned that Markali was about to be put into a position of power -- and that Corinne's Badenheim contacts were poised to draw him into their inner circle -- he had almost panicked. He had allowed the problem to grow to the point where it was almost impossible to contain -- by the time he was willing to act, drastic steps were required.

So, finally, he set aside his feelings and did what was necessary. Madeline should have been proud of his achievement -- except that, ironically, he couldn't explain it to her. Nor could he explain it to George. Corinne, his ex-wife, a terrorist sympathizer? They would have thought him completely mad, obsessed with revenge to the point of irrationality. So, instead, he chose a slightly more acceptable explanation -- manufacturing evidence against Markali himself. He knew that neither George nor Madeline really believed it, but it was just plausible enough that they let him proceed, however reluctantly.

He suspected that the two of them had been discussing the mission behind his back -- at times, their statements to him had sounded far too in synch for it to be a coincidence. And there was something else, as well, something both reassuring and worrying at the same time: the files retrieved from Markali's campaign had indeed shown evidence of extensive links back to Badenheim -- evidence that he knew couldn't have existed. Evidence that he, in fact, had been intending to plant -- and that he suspected someone else had planted _for_ him. Had it been Madeline, covering his back? George, wanting to ensure that Center didn't ask too many unwelcome questions? Or both of them, up to God knows what?

The prospect of Madeline and George conspiring about something gave him chills -- especially given what he and Madeline were planning for George. Their behavior during this mission struck him as a real-life twist on that scenario -- and it disturbed him more than he wanted to admit. Once they put their plan in full play, he would be leaving himself completely at Madeline's mercy. He trusted her, of course -- implicitly. But then Adrian had trusted George, too, he reminded himself -- just as implicitly.

_History repeats itself_, he thought with a shudder. God, he hoped not.

Adrian had once given him advice about selecting a second-in-command. She had always been so ready to dispense advice -- even if she didn't apply it to herself. The advice, however, was often sound.

_Choose someone who brings you balance, who complements you and makes up for your weaknesses_, Adrian had said. Well, he had done that. Without question.

_It must be someone who accepts that_ you _are in control -- who believes in_ your _leadership_, Adrian had added. Was that the case? Yes, there was really no doubt -- Madeline had demonstrated that countless times, in countless ways. Certainly she tried to influence him -- sometimes even to manipulate him -- but she always, unfailingly, deferred to his final decision. Even when it was wrong, he recognized in retrospect.

Finally, Adrian's last piece of advice: _If your second keeps secrets from you, it's the beginning of the end._ Here, he disagreed. Every partnership, every relationship, had secrets -- sometimes even dark ones. They were a necessary evil, he believed -- and the longer-lasting the partnership, the more that was the case. What really mattered was whether your partner would stand by you in the end. That was what Adrian missed -- that was what had destroyed her. And that was what would save him.

He smiled as he remembered how the saying about history repeating actually ended: _first as tragedy, then as farce_. Yes, that was probably true. This time, it would be a farce. And the joke would be on George.

His mind returned to the present, and he looked back at the scene unfolding outside his window. Watching Corinne mentally disintegrate hurt, despite his knowledge that she was no better than any of their other targets. Indeed, in the back of his mind, it puzzled him that both Corinne and Stephen had become involved with terrorists. What were the chances, really, that all three of them would independently fall into the same secret world? Infinitesimal. He wasn't blind -- either Section or Section's enemies had to have a hand in that. But he didn't want to know the details. Some things it was better not to know. It was better to have unanswered questions than answers that brought regrets.

Indeed, his only real regret was that he hadn't been able to be a real father to Stephen, or to protect his son better. As for the rest of his life, he felt he was an extraordinarily lucky man. He had been given the opportunity to make a real difference in the world -- in fact, he had saved it several times over. How many people could say that they had accomplished the same?

And then, to make things perfect, he had done so side by side with a woman whose brilliance, bravery and beauty still dazzled him. An infinitely frustrating woman, to be sure, who always tried to push him away whenever he seemed to be on the verge of getting truly close, but even that-- her very need to resist -- he found completely addictive.

Of course, she kept him at arms-length only because he allowed it. He had learned, over the years, that, despite her frequent coldness, whenever he made a serious effort, those barriers would crack -- just a little, at least. He was confident that, ultimately, he could remove them entirely if he wished, if he were determined enough. He knew that however much she convinced herself -- and tried to convince him -- that she wanted to reject him, she was incapable of doing so. Whenever he had forced the issue -- given her an opportunity to end things irreparably, she had never been able to go through with it. No, in truth, they were bound together inseparably -- and somewhere, on some level, he was sure that even she knew it.

But now was not the time to force the issue. It was better -- safer -- if things remained sporadic, indeterminate, even occasionally uncomfortable. As much as she seemed to worry about being his weakness, he knew that she was perhaps endangered even more. He was a man with many enemies -- he didn't want her to become a target of retaliation any more than she already was. So he would wait. Occasionally, he would pursue her -- and allow her to reject him -- because he knew she unconsciously craved the reassurance that he still cared for her. But he would wait -- until their enemies were defeated, until they were truly safe -- and then, he would claim what was his. What was theirs. Some form of personal happiness, even if so long deferred.

He gave one last sad look at Corinne, and then turned away forever. The past was the past, and couldn't be changed -- but he had the future to look forward to.


End file.
